


Between the Devil and the Danger

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Banter, Blood Drinking, Bloodlust, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Compulsion, Dialect, Drinking, Dubious Science, Edinburgh, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, Human Harry, Illnesses, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, POV Alternating, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning, Vampire Zayn, mentions of eating disorder but no eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: Edinburgh.  2016.Legs trembling, Harry squats next to the still figure.  Hesitant fingers search for a pulse on the limp, exposed wrist, but a shudder runs through him when he touches cool skin.  He swallows his surprise and steadies himself.  Harry feels like he should know what to do; he’s studying medicine—of sorts anyway.Yet, all of his rigorous training hasn’t prepared him for this, for stumbling across a body on his doorstep.+++Or, there are a lot of things Harry can't explain. The strange happenings around town and a certain enigmatic art student are two of them.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [droptop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/droptop/gifts).



> Written for the following prompts:  
> -“Vampire AU. Vampire Zayn/human Harry. Very steamy."  
> -“University/college AU with a twist." (The twist is that there are vampires. Surprise!)
> 
> Many of the places and (historical) events depicted in this fic are real/based on fact. Characters and plot are pure fiction (beyond names and likenesses of course). POV switches between Harry and Zayn and only changes with the chapter. If you have any questions on vampirisms, dialect, or specific triggers, please comment below.
> 
> Thank you to *L* for the Beta and to our lovely mod for her patience. Please enjoy! ;)
> 
> Title: “Save Myself” by Ed Sheeran.
> 
> [](http://photobucket.com/)  
> 

 

**(Harry)**

Legs trembling, Harry squats next to the still figure.  Hesitant fingers search for a pulse on the limp, exposed wrist, but a shudder runs through him when he touches cool skin.  He swallows his surprise and steadies himself.  Harry feels like he should know what to do; he’s studying medicine—of sorts anyway.

Yet, all of his rigorous training hasn’t prepared him for _this_ , for stumbling across a body on his doorstep.

He lowers his head and hears nothing, feels nothing.  No breath, no sign of life.  No welcome, happy thrumming as he presses his fingers to the man’s carotid.  He waits…longer than he should.  Maybe it’s wishful thinking that stays his hand.  After a while, though, he pulls back because he knows.

_He’s too late._

When moonlight washes over the man—a boy really—Harry’s breath hitches.  He’s beautiful—pale but with exquisite features.  Spider-like lashes create hyperextended shadows which fall upon razor-sharp cheekbones.  He looks like a painting, one that Harry wants to take home with him and hang on the wall above his fireplace. 

He’s too beautiful to die. 

Something in his brain tells Harry that he’s being shallow, that a life is a life.  Still, he can’t help thinking this boy is special somehow and that Harry was meant to find him.

Harry searches the deserted area for help, for someone to call 999, but it’s just him.  It’s just him and his wonky mobile that died on his way home from Liam’s.  Even the pub’s closed its doors for the night an hour ago.  He bites his lip hard, breaking the skin, as he tries to hold back his emotions.  A little blood trickles out, but that’s the least of his concerns now.  It’s so unfair that he has to be the one to stumble upon the body.  It’s even more unfair that the boy appears to be not much older than Harry, that he’s in the prime of his life, that—

Harry can’t ponder all that now though: he’s got a job to do, and he has to stay focused.  He figures that even if there’s little hope to revive the boy, he should try.  He’s _got_ to try.  Harry couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

He leans in to resuscitate the boy.  Maybe there’s still a chance.  _Maybe…._


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Lord forgive me for the things I’ve done  
I was never meant to hurt no one_

-“Bloodstream,” Ed Sheeran

 

**(Zayn)**

 

*Earlier*

 

Zayn’s not entirely certain why he came back to Edinburgh.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it here—quite the opposite really.  He can’t think of anything more spectacular or inspiring than the way the city wraps around rocky hills and crags, the way ancient closes stand alongside vibrant cafes in harmonious discord, and the way Edinburgh Castle looms over it all, a formidable fortress atop an extinct volcano.  

Besides, he’s got a reason to be here:  he’s been accepted to a programme at the Edinburgh College of Art.  It’s been a dream of his forever to study art, and now he’s finally got the chance.  He’s excited.  Shit, he’s elated just to be a student again.  It’s been so long since he’s been at uni, and he misses it—misses the exchange of ideas and the discourse, misses the reckless indestructability of youth, misses the deadlines and even the slight stench of mildew emanating from the library.

Yes, Edinburgh’s like a second home to him.  Some of his happiest years were spent here; that’s undeniable.  It’s also undeniable that this city is dangerous for him.  It’s dangerous because of who he is, and more precisely, _what_ he is.  It’s dangerous because he’s running from his past, and this place has so many reminders of that—the good and bad and everything inbetween.  Deep down, Zayn knows he doesn’t belong here.  Not anymore.  He’s an outsider— _or worse_ —an anachronism.

Yeah, that’s it.  He’s a fucking anachronism.

 

**\+ + +**

 

It’s three months into the term, and Zayn’s making it work.  He’s focusing on his art, impressing his professors, and ignoring the attempts by his classmates to chat him up whenever he lingers too long in the studio or dawdles by the canteen.  He’s got enough to occupy his time, what with his heavy course load, the books he’s been planning to read for the past decade (or more), and now, an actual, real-life commission (of sorts).

He almost pissed himself when he heard the news.  He’s starting as a Year Two (his A-Levels and portfolio allowing him to skip Year One of the programme), and he’s already been chosen to design a sculpture/mixed media piece that will adorn the foyer of the University’s new Centre for Innovation, opening in late spring.  His preliminary designs have already been approved (although he has the artistic licence to change them).  He’s so fucking stoked because he gets to create something sick, something permanent, something he can finally hang his hat on.  There are so many ideas running around his head, and his hands are just itching to get started.

But as the first semester draws to a close, he suspects that’s precisely the problem.  He can’t focus on one thing.  Then again, nothing seems good enough to focus _on_.  He can’t conjure a single idea for ‘an innovative sculpture which captures the essence of the human condition in the modern world.’  (Like, what does that even mean?). 

It’s eating at him like nothing before.  He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t done much of anything because he can’t fuck this up.  It’s what he’s always wanted, and he can’t bloody fuck this up. 

That’s why he ignores the craving when it first comes. 

When he feels the prickling sensation under his skin though, he knows he can’t wait any longer.  He’s pushed himself to the limit this time and can feel the weakness taking over.  The problem is that he’s too afraid to leave his room, too afraid of what he might do if he’s in close proximity to other students. 

Fuck, he really let it go too long this time.

So he locks himself in and waits it out.  Inbetween restless periods where he feels his skin’s about to burn off, he does some ‘brainstorming’ (a.k.a., stares blankly at his sketchbook).  Once he’s sure it’s safe, that the corridors are mostly quiet, he dresses quickly and slips out just after midnight.

He heads towards the city centre, plans of stealing into the Royal Infirmary shattered when he remembers that it’s not at Lauriston Place anymore, that it probably hasn’t been there for years.

Honestly, he’s a fucking idiot.  Like world-fucking-class. 

It’s too late to catch a bus and too dangerous to hail a cab so he continues on his current path, picking up his pace when he can.   He wracks his brains trying to come up with a Plan B, one that doesn’t involve reckless hunting in the heart of Edinburgh when he can’t think straight. 

 As he stalks through cobblestone streets and narrow closes, he reflects on how angry Cal used to get when he’d wait this long before feeding.  He was a proper dolt, always trying to pride himself on his self-discipline, on how long he had trained himself to go between meals.  Louis thought it was a game but Cal knew better.  Cal knew that underneath it all, Zayn was ashamed of who he was—no, of _what_ he was.

Stopping a moment to rest against the side of a pub, he pulls his beanie down to cover his ears and tries not to dwell on the past because there’s no fucking point.  Then he pushes on, concentrates on the snow-covered pavement in front of him now, focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.  It’s Edinburgh in the dead of winter, and the cold is biting.  It’s draining, and he can’t think.  He can’t remember why he decided to come outside in the first place because it’s cold as fuck, and his head _hurts_.

His limbs start to rebel against him, but he spies a welcoming stoop under a streetlamp and shakily sinks down to his knees.  The cold bleeds through his thin jeans so he shrugs out of his trench and cocoons himself in a water-proof shell.  He’s exhausted; he’s only just realised it now.  He needs a minute—just a minute—to rest, and then he’ll be fine.  He curls into a foetal position as snowflakes fall gently in the dark night.  He counts them, one-by-one, until he no longer can keep his eyes open, until he no longer wants to.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“You really scared me for a moment there,” a raspy voice exhales, startling him.  _Male.  Young.  English.  Human._   Zayn immediately senses that he’s no longer outside, but that’s about as far as he gets before the voice addresses him again: 

“Can you tell me your name?”  

Zayn’s first impulse is to lie, but he’s learnt to not always rely on his first impulse.  Once he can get his eyelids to cooperate, he sees that the boy standing a few feet away from him might be a student like him, might be in one of his classes even with how much Zayn pays attention.  It would be stupid to lie—dangerous even.

“Zayn.”   

The human cocks his head to the side as if he’s considering something.  He’s got quixotic eyes, wispy ash-brown hair that looks as if it hasn’t seen a comb for days, and a strong jaw that contrasts sharply with his otherwise baby-face appearance.  The stranger is wearing a rose-coloured blouse that belongs to another century, and even though Zayn should be the anachronism here, this boy could well have walked out of one of the myriad Romantic novels Zayn pored through when he read English his first time around at uni.

“Zayn,” Quixotic Eyes repeats, running the pad of his thumb over a plump lip.  “You look like a Zayn.”

Zayn’s unsure how to respond, unsure if the observation even warrants a response.  He clears his throat, and it’s like dusting off cobwebs.  “Uh…thanks?”

“How old are you?” is Quixotic Eyes’ follow-up.

This time, Zayn knows honesty ain’t the best policy as he automatically goes on the defensive.  “What’s it to you, bruv?  You got a kink for asking personal questions or summat?”

Quixotic Eyes isn’t affronted at all.  As a matter of fact, he’s delighted with Zayn’s answer for some bizarre reason.  “You’re _English_!  I’m English, too,” the kid tells him excitedly, like it’s something they don’t have in common with 54.8 million other poor sods on the small island.  “You from Leeds?”

“Bradford,” Zayn mumbles.

“Fancy that?!  What made you decide to come all the way up here for uni rather than go to London or something?”

This time Zayn can’t hold his tongue.  “It’s like exactly 200 miles either way from Bradford, mate.”

“Is it?”  The boy’s eyes light up like a kid in front of a sweet shop window.  “200 miles…is it _really_?  Well, who’d’ve thought?” he marvels, clearly bowled over by the simple titbit of information.  He then settles cross-legged on an awful mustard-coloured shag in front of the sofa.  Zayn doesn’t feel like talking so he just observes the boy’s peculiar movements carefully out of the corner of his eye.  He watches as the boy clasps and unclasps his hands, messes with his hair as if it’s longer than it is, and then rocks back and forth in an erratic rhythm, hands clasping the knees of his still-crossed legs.  Zayn wants to tell him to stop mucking about and explain what the bloody hell Zayn’s doing in the sitting room of a flat that looks like it hasn’t been updated in _decades_.

For real, Zayn feels like he’s been transported back in time, what with the crazy bold patterns everywhere, turntable and neatly-displayed LPs dominating one corner, and olive fridge freezer he’s sure won the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval…in 1973.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Quixotic Eyes exhales, misinterpreting Zayn’s interest in the flat’s décor.  “Niall, my flatmate, always pretends he doesn’t like it when I add a new piece, but how can you argue with the positive energy in here?”

Zayn doesn’t know this Niall fellow from Adam, but he already feels they have a strong, common bond.

The kid side-eyes him.  “You’re awfully quiet.  You _sure_ you’re alright?  I’m kind of feeling like I should take you to hospital.  Liam said I ought to take you to hospital.”

Zayn stiffens.  “No hospitals.”

“Why?”

The sound of a dog baying from not too far off fills the pregnant pause.  “I just…don’t like them.”  It sounds pathetic at best so he tries to allay Harry’s concerns.  “I’ll just give the old GP a call in the morning and make an appointment.  I’m good though—really.”

Quixotic Eyes scrutinises him closely.  “Yeah, maybe.  I don’t want to scare you or anything, but I had to revive you earlier, perform CPR.”  Zayn has to force himself to focus on the meaning of the words rather than the hypnotising way in which they trickle, slow and deliberate, off curvaceous lips.  “You were out cold when I found you,” he continues softly.  “You came to with a jolt, bolted right up, and I have to say it scared the dickens out of me.  Anyway, it’s freezing outside so I just helped you up here.  I managed to get that wet trench off you and get you to the sofa here before you blacked out again.”

If Zayn didn’t feel so shitty, he might think Harry was telling him about someone else because it doesn’t make sense.  CPR should do piss-all for him.  Well, it shouldn’t “revive” him—should it?

Besides, Zayn doesn’t really recollect any of it.  He remembers walking through shadowy streets, his mind on one thing and one thing only.  He remembers feeling feverish and stopping to rest against the side of a building, but it gets hazy from there.  The thing is, it had hit him so suddenly.  It was all his fault really—he shouldn’t have gone so long without a proper feeding.  He had thought he was indestructible.  

Apparently, he’d thought wrong.

“How are you feeling now?  Can I get you something?”  It’s Quixotic Eyes again.  He’s hovering directly over Zayn now, and that’s when the scent hits him—blood.  _Fresh_ blood.  _Human_ blood. 

Zayn peers up in confusion to find the boy’s lip has a sliver of a cut.  Zayn licks his own lips, and he can taste it, the familiar metallic aftertaste.  It’s salty, of course, but sweeter than he’s used to.  A shudder runs through him because he gets it now.  Blood must have oozed from this human boy’s lips to his own when he performed the mouth-to-mouth.  It must have been just enough to bring Zayn back from the brink, just enough to sustain him…for now.

Fuck, he’s gotta get out of here. 

He wills himself to his feet, totters a bit, then nearly collapses because of course he does.

“Take it easy there, tiger,” the baritone rasps, catching him easily with a strength Zayn never would have guessed he was hiding under that oversized jumper.  He eases Zayn back onto the safety of the sofa before pulling his Docs off.  Zayn doesn’t even try to protest.  “You’re still so cold,” Quixotic Eyes mumbles to himself.  “I know there’s another blanket around here somewhere—”

“I’m fine, really,” Zayn assures him, “just a bit knackered is all.”

The boy nods.  “I just rang a mate of mine.  He took an EMT course before his current job.  Anyway, he said it’s probably a hypoglycaemic attack—low sugar—if there’s nothing wrong with you.  That’s what I was thinking as well.  _Is_ there anything wrong with you?”  The boy must have realised what he said because his green eyes widen, and he flusters out, “I didn’t mean, like…you know.”  He bites his lip again, and Zayn thinks it’s kind of adorable really.  “well, what I’m trying to say is…are there any medical conditions I should know about or…?”

“Nah,” Zayn manages.  He’s trying to figure out where he is now, what part of the city.  He can’t remember much of anything though.  It’s like he’s looking at everything through a foggy lens. 

“Here, I made you something,” the boy tells him, standing up to retrieve a sandwich from the kitchen counter.  It reeks of peanut butter.  “Just a peanut butter sandwich,” Quixotic Eyes confirms, and Zayn suspects this boy must be some type of masochist, leaving off the jam like that.  “Liam says that’s the best for these situations though.”

Zayn has to hold back a groan because a peanut butter ‘sandwich’ is literally the last thing he wants right now (or ever, really).  His mouth is dry as it is.  “Cheers, but I’m not hungry.”

“So when was the last time you ate?”

Zayn searches for an answer because he can’t think of a clever retort this time.  “I…um don’t remember.”  And he can’t.  “But I’m not hungry,” he lies as he body protests.

“Drink the juice at least, yeah?” Quixotic Eyes urges and Zayn can’t say no this time.  He sits up a bit and takes a sip.  It’s cranberry so at least the colour doesn’t put him off.  “Now what can I make you?” the boy pushes once Zayn’s managed to drink about half the juice.  “Look, I don’t have much, but you’re more than welcome to anything I have, and—”

“No, i-it’s not that,” Zayn stutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and setting the glass back on the table.  He glances down at the back of his hand and there’s a crimson stain on it that makes the Hunger return momentarily.  He groans and screws his eyes shut until it passes.

_Fucking Biology._

But to be fair, since he’s not technically alive, Zayn can’t really blame biology.  He knows there must be a study of dead things—or Living Dead things to be more accurate—but he can’t think what that would be, not with how his head’s pounding and his throat is on fire.  He wishes Cal was around, Cal who knows every fucking science and pseudoscience forwards and backwards.  Cal would have the answer.

“So what is it?” Quixotic Eyes presses.

“Huh?”

“You were going to tell me why you haven’t eaten.”

“Oh, right.  I just…”  Zayn’s voice trails off.  “I just get busy sometimes—so focused, I guess.  I’m an art student and—”

“Well, that explains it,” Quixotic Eyes states knowingly.  Zayn’s expression must have mirrored his thoughts because he clarifies.  “Aren’t art students always going without eating, spending money on supplies and what-not?  Look, I could care less if you’re broke, Zayn.  We’ve all been there, believe me.  Let me lend you a few quid, yeah?  I really don’t mind, and you can pay me back when you’re on your feet again.”

“No, it’s not that,” Zayn protests, feeling a bit like a broken record.  He’s actually well minted, and the last thing he needs are handouts from university students.

The boy folds his arms across his chest and gives him a disapproving stare.  The veins on the boy’s neck seem to be bulging, calling out to him, and Zayn has to turn his head to look away.  The temptation’s making him dizzy.

“Zayn, don’t be embarrassed.”  He’s reading Zayn’s body language all wrong.  Again.

“I told you it’s not the money.”

“Then what is it?  No excuses this time.”

“Well, I just get over-focused on things, like I said.  Sometimes, I forget to, um, eat.  And then sometimes—”  Zayn stops himself.  He doesn’t usually share things about himself; it’s dangerous.

He just wishes the boy would stop looking at him like _that._

“Yeah, go on.”

“I don’t know…I feel guilty, like.”

“Guilty?” the boy echoes.

“Yeah, like I shouldn’t be enjoying what I’m eating?”  Now Zayn’s positive he’s revealed too much.  Fuck, he hasn’t even fully admitted that to Louis or Cal, and he’s known them for _years_.  He wonders if he should try to compel the boy in front of him, but he’s hardly got the energy at the moment.

“Oh,” Quixotic Eyes murmurs, and it’s full of understanding.  He sits down on an open space on the couch, and Zayn can’t get over his rich scent now:  salted caramel and orange blossoms—that’s what he’d label it.  The two scents shouldn’t work together, but they do.  Warm, savoury, citrusy, delicate, floral.  It’s intoxicating.  It’s better than anything he’s ever smelled before in his entire fucking existence.  He wants to wrap himself in it, wants to taste it on his lips again….

“You said you were a student?” Quixotic Eyes asks, waiting for Zayn’s verification before proceeding.  “Well, promise me you’ll spend the night here then.  There can’t be anything too pressing in the wee hours of the morning, not during the holiday and all.”

Zayn’s not a tough sell at the moment.  “Sure thing, mate,” he agrees.  A part of him is perfectly aware that he shouldn’t stay here, knows he’s taking a risk, but he can’t be arsed about that right now, not with how warm and comfortable this flat is.  “Thanks for saving me…?”

“Harry,” the boy supplies with a lop-sided smile.

“You look like a Harry,” Zayn yawns as a wave of exhaustion washes over him.  As he closes his eyes, he hears a soft chuckle above him.  Footsteps depart and return, and then a thick duvet is wrapped around him, tucked in carefully at the edges.

It smells of salted caramel and orange blossoms, too, and Zayn can’t think of anything lovelier.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Hmm, that’s odd….”

Zayn bolts up, blinking wildly.  The aftertaste of a recurring nightmare lingers, but it’s ripped away as he realises the urgency of the situation.  He had forgotten where he was, but it’s slowly coming back to him as he takes in the ocean of mustard and paisley around him.  A boy (Harry, wasn’t it?) is stood over him, eyes trained on some device held in his massive hands.  There’s a vestige of pressure in Zayn’s right ear like something had just been inserted in his aural cavity and….

“Bloody hell.”

At first, Zayn can’t figure out whether it’s him or the human who just spoke.  Maybe Zayn was thinking aloud.  Louis always told him he needed to work on that—not that he gives a flying fuck about what _that_ asshole thinks but—

“Oh, fragdaggle!”

Yeah, that _definitely_ wasn’t Zayn this time.  There’s no way he’d be caught dead even _thinking_ whatever that was. 

“Something wrong?” Zayn asks nonchalantly even though he already knows what’s up.  Still, he can’t help admiring the way Harry’s face is screwed up into a cute puppy dog expression, brows knitted together as he bemusedly studies the uncooperative stick in his hand. 

Zayn goes for the joke because that’s what he does.  “It came out positive then?  Who’s the lucky bird?”

Harry looks down at him, then slowly, a huge grin breaks out across the boyish face.  It’s like pure sunshine—and not how sunshine feels now but how he remembers it from before, warm and embracing.  “No, you donut.  I haven’t got anyone preggers, thank you very much,” he chuckles.  “It’s a thermometer,” he explains (as if Zayn didn’t already know), “and a dodgy one at that apparently.”

“Oh?” Zayn offers, schooling his face to react appropriately to what Harry’s about to report.

“Yeah.  Says your temp’s 17.2 degrees right now.  It’s twenty degrees off—can you believe that?”  Harry shakes his head.  “Paid twenty quid for it, too.  Should’ve just bought the cheap one like Niall said.”

Suddenly, there’s a low, menacing growl and Zayn’s not sure where it’s coming from at first.  Then he spots a tiny, tri-coloured beagle in a doorway.  Its black nose is lowered to the floor, but as Zayn watches, hazel eyes catch his own.  The brown floppy ears stiffen as the small creature begins to howl.

“George, stop that,” Harry admonishes, wagging a finger at the dog although it pays no mind whatsoever to its owner.  The animal’s too transfixed on Zayn instead.  “It’s our new guest, _Zayn_ ,” Harry tells him patiently.  “Don’t you remember the conversation we had earlier, George?”

“George?” Zayn questions.  As soon as he says the dog’s name, though, it lets out a yelp that makes him wish his hearing wasn’t quite so sensitive.

“Go to your shame corner, George,” Harry instructs the small animal.  The dog seems to comply, backing away slowly, eyes still glued on Zayn until his hind end collides with the leg of a chair.  George barks and chases his tail a bit before racing out of the room like a hawk’s after him.  Harry sighs.  “Don’t know what’s got into him.  He’s usually much friendlier with strangers.  He’s actually a shit watchdog because of it,” he confides. 

“Maybe it’s just because he’s a puppy?”

Harry laughs and Zayn swears he could get used to the warm, deep sound.  “Nah, he’s three or so—not exactly sure because he’s a rescue dog.  George is a pocket beagle,” Harry explains, “so that’s why he weighs just over half a stone.”

“Isn’t that kind of an unusual breed to find as a rescue dog?”

“Yeah, Liam reckons there’s some other type of hound in there, but it’s obviously got to be a small one.”  Zayn thinks of the pint-sized pup and thinks it would, indeed, have to be a _very_ small one.  “I sort of got first dibs at him because I volunteer at the rescue centre.”

Of course Harry does.  He probably saves baby seals and runs a soup kitchen in his spare time as well.

Zayn hears another howl coming from wherever the hell the dog’s “shame corner” is and a thought strikes him.  “Where was George last night?”

“Oh, had to lock him in my bedroom because he was making such a racket when I brought you in; wouldn’t mind me at all,” Harry sighs.  “I loathe having to discipline him like this—I try to treat him like the intelligent creature he is—but it’s like he went mental as soon as I brought you in.  He quieted down eventually, but I’m just glad the neighbours didn’t complain.”

“The sleeping pills I slipped him probably helped,” Zayn deadpans, stretching out on the small couch.  He looks up at Harry’s furrowed brow and laughs.  “Don’t worry—I didn’t slip your dog anything, ya twat.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Harry says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling dopily into the crook of his arm.  “Sorry, you just didn’t seem like you were taking the piss there.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at him.  “So you think I’m the type to just go around poisoning pooches then?”

“No, of course not!  I just, well….”  Harry blushes a deep red, and that’s when Zayn feels it again—the Hunger.  It’s pure torture being around a human when the sting of it begins.  The miniscule amount of blood he had yesterday was only a temporary fix, and it’s rapidly wearing off.

Zayn sits up quickly—too quickly—and fends off the sensation of vertigo.  He isn’t backing down this time though.  As he rises to his feet, he feels his age for once—his real age, that is.  He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this poorly.  “I’ve got to go,” he mumbles, trembling a bit as he steps into his boots on the mat by the door and collects his coat from the rack.  Every movement feels difficult, like he’s slogging through a mire.  “Thanks again for letting me crash here, mate.”

Harry says something in response but Zayn’s not listening.  He’s already halfway out the door. 

He stumbles out into the daylight, sheltering his eyes from the sun and cursing under his breath.  He wishes he had his sunnies with him because it’s nearly unbearable how bright it is even for a winter’s day.  He starts on his way, being careful to stay close to buildings and not attract any undue suspicion as he always does.

He tries not to think about how rude he must have seemed just now, leaving so abruptly and all. 

Yeah, in retrospect, he probably could’ve been politer.  But then again, things could’ve gone a whole lot worse if he continued to ignore his thirst.  In any case, it was doubtful that he’d ever see this eccentric kid again.  Very doubtful indeed.

 

**\+ + +**

Later that night, after he’s fed, Zayn feels satiated if nothing else.  He’s not proud of what he’s done, but it was necessary.  He licks a final drop from his lips and wishes it were sweeter, wishes it tasted of salted caramel. 

And that’s when he knows he’s well and truly fucked.

He finds himself wandering aimlessly through the Old Town, too buzzed to head back towards Holyrood Park when a pub door swings open, and a karaoke-version of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” blasts out into the street.  Zayn hums along in spite of the fact he’s ninety percent certain it’s a sign the universe is taking the piss.  Again.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

_Black cat come visit me, I don't care what people say  
I saw your hazel eyes, sparkling in the moonlight_

-“Black Cat,” Ziggy Marley

**(Harry)**

 

“You brought him _home_ with you?” Niall questions at top volume, staring at Harry from across the bar like he’s off his head.  “You took some strange bloke off the street and carried him into _our_ fecking gaff?”

It sounds naff when Niall says it like that, even Harry’s got to admit it.  Now, Harry can feel the eyes of the entire room on them, and a quick glance in both directions confirms his suspicions.  “Well, I mean, he was already sort of on our doorstep so.”

“Jaysus, Harry. We live next to a pub.  There’s hardly a day that passes without my finding a shit-faced Scotsman on our doorstep.”

“Niall,” Harry objects, “he wasn’t plastered.  Or Scottish,” he includes for good measure.

Liam clucks like a disappointed mum.  “Harry, what Niall is trying to say is that you want to be more careful.  He could’ve been a Heroin addict or deranged criminal—or worse.” 

Harry hadn’t thought of that.  He wants to explain to them both that he knew Zayn wasn’t dangerous as soon as he saw him.  He couldn’t be—not with a face like _that._

Niall leans over the bar, mistaking Harry’s silence for acceptance.  “Liam’s right.  The dude might have murdered me in my sleep, mate.”

“But you weren’t even at the flat last night!” Harry protests.  “You were staying at Allison’s.”

“Still,” Niall shrugs, and Harry can tell that his flatmate’s not really upset with him.  Harry’s relieved because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Niall ever actually got upset with him.

Liam scratches the scruff on his chin.  “So tell me again why you didn’t call an ambulance like I suggested?”

“He didn’t want to go; said he didn’t like hospitals.”

Niall and Liam have that ‘Harry is a naïve child’ look upon their faces, and it’s really getting on his tits.  What happened the night before was one of those situations where you had to be there, he wants to say, but somehow he doesn’t think that will sway them. 

“Oi!” someone bellows across the crowded pub, saving Harry from answering the unanswerable.  “How about some service then, ya Irish tosser?”

“Can you not see I’m engaged here?” Niall shoots back from where he’s leaned over the bar by Harry and Liam.  Nonetheless, he straightens up and drifts a few feet towards where the ginger-haired lad is standing with his mates.  They’re all regulars—locals, not students. 

“Besides,” Niall sings out over the din, “it’s not like you lot are gonna make it worth my while when it comes to tips, are you?  Should’ve stayed in fecking Ireland; you know what they say about the Scotch, dontcha?”

“That they make better whisky than the Irish?” the ginger re-joins and there’s a chorus of hurrahs.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Niall mutters, clasping his hands heavenward, “somebody hold me back.  You’re lucky I feel proper sorry for you all, or I’d be looking to hop over this bar and straighten out that mad idea of yours there.”

“So ya feel sorry for us, eh Horan?  On account of wit then?”

“Well ta much for asking, lads,” Niall acknowledges with a wink.  “I feel sorry for all you Scots on account of the fact you didn’t even qualify for the last Euros, that’s bloody what.”

A few more rapid fire comments and Niall’s served everyone their drinks.  Harry smiles, knowing Niall’s in his element.  He knows his friend loves the regular banter with the lads, lives for it actually.

While Niall’s ‘working,’ Harry takes the opportunity to ask Liam about the recent disappearances in the city.  “Any news then?”

Liam understands immediately what he’s referring to.  After all, the two displaced Englishman haven’t been pals this long without acquiring some low-level mind-reading skills.  “We found another dog with…I won’t go into it.”  Liam’s eyes cloud as he takes a long drink, no doubt trying to forget an image he won’t be able to anytime soon.  Harry thinks it’s bad enough just reading about everything in the paper.

“This one have an owner?” Harry inquires, trying not to think about George and what he’d do if anything ever happened to his little dog.

“No, don’t think so—there wasn’t a collar at any rate,” Liam responds, sighing deeply.  “We’ve started a masterlist of all the pet disappearances in the city, though, so we can cross-check descriptions.  It’s a multi-agency project, but we don’t seem to be making much headway.”

“Paper’s been blaming a ‘cat burglar,’ says someone’s kidnapping cats and dogs around Edinburgh just for kicks.”

Liam snorts.  “Yeah, that’s what the police thought until we started finding several with neck wounds.  I think it’s some kind of wild animal—a wolf maybe.  A snake or bat seems more likely when you look at some of the wounds.”

"A wolf in the middle of Edinburgh?” Harry scoffs because, honestly, the theory sounds a bit ridiculous…unless it broke out of the zoo, that is.  “Now, a bat I could believe.”

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Liam suggests drearily, like the whole thing’s taking a toll on him.  “Hey, how was your last block?  Have you sat your exams yet?”

Harry perks up at that.  “Just have one more and then I’m done.”  He just finishes telling Liam about how he had the chance to assist with a recent intestinal surgery on the loveliest Siamese he’s ever set eyes on when Niall returns.  The bartender is flushed and glowing like he’s just come offstage, like he belongs in the spotlight. 

(Harry’s been telling Niall that same thing from the day they met nearly three years ago on the ninth green of the Old Course at St. Andrews.  Technically, Harry was supposed to be on the sixth—of the New Course—but his dodgy driver sent the ball a hundred yards to the left, miraculously managing to bump Niall’s ball (which was poised for a birdie) into the hazard.  Niall had dropped a shot but gained a flatmate after that round, and every time the Irishman retells the story, he claims that it was ‘almost’ worth it.)

“Finally come back to join us, have you?” Liam joshes.  “I needed another refill, and I thought you’d neglected us for good.”

“Should’ve done,” Niall retorts, making the rum and coke anyway and serving it to their friend.  “Now where was I?” Niall ponders aloud before snapping his fingers.  “Aha!  I was just gonna tell our little Harry here—”

“Niall, I’m like five months younger than you,” Harry grumps.  “Not even.”

“—That you just don’t go arsing around, picking up fucking _strays_ about Edinburgh,” Niall lectures, leaning over the bar just enough for Harry to get a whiff of Guinness. 

Liam smiles, eyes crinkling.  “Yeah, leave the strays to me, Harry.”

Niall snorts, slamming his palm down.  “Like he’s even capable of doing that, Payno.  Be real.”

“Oops,” Liam chuckles, “feel like that’s my fault a bit, letting him foster a few cats and dogs here and there.”

Niall nods vigorously.  “Yeah, well he adopted a new one without your help last night.”

Harry can’t take it anymore.  "He’s not a dog.  Quit it, yeah?”

“Who isn’t a dog?”

Harry lets out an exasperated sigh.  “ _Zayn._ ”

Niall pounds the bar with his fist and points at Liam.  “Aha!  We’ve got a name, Payno!  So let’s do a quick recap of what we know so far:  first off, this ‘Zayn’ likes to play dead on random doorsteps; second, he claims to be a student; third, he isn’t Scottish; fourth, he may or may not be hiding from the authorities; and fifth, he’s well-fit.  Do tell us more, Harry.” 

“Piss off, Nialler,” Harry groans, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him right there.  Or maybe he’ll take the scenic route back to his flat and get lucky by falling into the Firth of Forth.

“Are you blushing, mate?” Liam asks incredulously.

Niall chuckles.  “So this stray _is_ easy on the eyes then, is he?  You fancy him or something?” the Irishman teases with sparkling eyes.

Harry sinks his head in his hands.  He doesn’t know why he told them about Zayn.  He really doesn’t.

But he isn’t off the hook yet.  Niall’s still giving him the third degree.  “So when do we meet him, this mysterious lad you brought back to life?”

“I didn’t…I mean…he was fine.”  Harry can feel his blush deepen even more.

“Yes, he was alright,” Liam puts forward, “because _you_ were there.”

Harry can’t even entertain a thought like that.  If he did, it would completely do his head in.

“So?” Niall presses.

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly.  “I’ll probably never see him again.”

“Fuck me,” Niall curses, shaking his head.  “Sometimes I’m sure I don’t understand you, Harry Edward Styles.  I mean, a fit lad falls at your doorstep, and you, a medically-trained student—”

“I’m going for my BVM&S, Nialler,” Harry reminds him.  “It’s not really the same thing.”

“Fine,” Niall waves him off.  “You, a vet-in-training, resuscitates him, and you can’t even get some damn digits.”

Liam gives him _that_ look.  “I agree, Nialler.  Hopeless.”

“I wasn’t…I mean, I’m not interested in him like that,” Harry contends.  “I was just trying to help, that’s all.”

“That’s the problem—you’re always trying to ‘help,’ mate,” Niall scolds softly, laying a gentle hand on his arm.  Liam hums next to him in complete accordance.  “You’ve got to do something for yourself for a change.  Stop worrying about the world’s troubles.  You’ve enough of your own, I’m sure.”

“Not really,” Harry confesses, and he mostly means it.  “I feel kind of lucky, like I’ve my life sorted.  I’m in a top-notch programme, living the dream so to speak.  I’ve got a loving family.  I’ve enough money to cover everything I need—”

“You’ve got the best mates,” Niall prompts, winking at Liam.

“Yeah, I’ve got ace mates who enjoy interrogating me,” Harry chuckles and Niall reaches over the bar to tousle his hair affectionately.  “I also have an amazing internship lined up this summer and a nice flat in Edinburgh.”

“And George,” Liam offers.  “You’ve got George.”

“And _most_ of all, George,” Harry concurs because it’s true.  He loves his little beagle more than life itself.

Like he said, he’s got his life sorted.  He doesn’t really need anything else; he’s already got more than enough, more than his fair share probably.  And if Harry wants to worry about other people’s problems instead of his own…well, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Still, he can’t stop thinking about hazel eyes.  Hazel eyes that seem to change from amber to khaki to coffee brown and then back again.  Hazel eyes that make him weak in the knees just thinking about them.

Hazel eyes there’s an incredibly good chance he’ll never see again.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry spends the next week studying for his last exam and convincing his flatmate that George isn’t actually possessed. 

To Niall’s credit, his beagle does seem a bit ‘off.’  George refuses to cuddle with Harry on the sofa for a stretch of several days.  Instead, he circles the rug by the front door and spends countless hours at the first-story window overlooking the street.  Harry insists that George is simply yearning to explore outside, to take their usual stroll along Meadow Walk:  chasing butterflies, preening for uni students and curious tots, and tracking unique scents.

But the fact is, even when the snow’s gone and there’s an unseasonably pleasant day, George _still_ barely budges from his perch at the window or his vigilant post at the front door.  Harry would suspect his dog’s ill if it weren’t for the fact he’s still eating like a St. Bernard and is as bright-eyed as ever.  It’s almost as if the dog’s on the lookout for something.

The subsequent week, George settles down somewhat which is fortunate because Harry’s taking the train down to Holmes Chapel to spend Christmas with his family.  He leaves George in Liam’s capable hands since Niall’s spending the holidays back home as well.

Harry enjoys his time with his family but all too soon, it’s time to leave.  The semester starts early for vet school, and he wants to make sure he’s got everything sorted before then.  Niall comes home a couple of days later with a plethora of entertaining stories and the sniffles.

Soon, Niall’s ‘sniffles’ turns into a full-blown cold, and the Irishman camps out on the sofa as Harry makes him pot after pot of homemade chicken soup.  (George helps with the bones.)  Niall is a crabby, cantankerous patient, the direct opposite of his usual sunny self.  George doesn’t seem to mind though.  He curls up on the couch and naps while Uncle Niall watches some golf tournament on the other side of the world where there’s a lot more sand and a good deal less snow.

Niall’s stuffily critiquing the swing of the leader after 54 holes (although Harry’s not quite sure who he’s talking to since he can hear George’s soft snoring) when Harry calls out from the kitchen to ask if Niall’s hungry.

“Harry Edward Styles, I can put up with a lot, but so help me, if you so much as say the words ‘chicken’ or ‘soup,’ I will clobber you with my new putter. 

“So you wouldn’t want cream of chicken then I suppose?” 

“Jaysus, I don’t want cream of chicken or curry chicken or even fecking cock-a-leekie!” Niall moans before letting out an earth-shattering sneeze.  “Listen, I’ll do anything if you’ll run down the road and pick up some real grub for me.”

“Tesco?”

“Nah, the butcher’s shop with all them flags out front—you know the one.”

Harry agrees readily and takes Niall’s order.  If there’s even the slightest chance it will bring Niall back to his former self, Harry’s one-hundred-thirty percent down with it. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry’s about to open the door to the butcher’s shop when he stops dead in his tracks. 

He takes a step back from the door and peers into the shop window instead.  He can see the butcher talking to a slender, raven-haired man before disappearing into the back of the shop.  The customer turns slightly, showing-off his perfect profile, and now there’s no doubt:  it’s Zayn.

Harry feels a happy glow inside of him, the one he now associates with the mysterious stranger who has popped into his life for the second time.  If Harry were superstitious, he’d say fate was playing a hand in all this.  But because he’s a man of science, he doesn’t allow himself to think too much into it.

With a jittery feeling like he’s had too much sugar, he hauls open the shop’s door.  A twinkling of bells accompanies his footsteps.  “Hullo there, stranger!”

Zayn’s eyes go a bit wild for a second, but then he offers Harry a small, hesitant smile.  “Hey,” he returns.  “You following me, man?”

“Nah, just came up to get some haggis for my flatmate who’s poorly.  _Ugh_ ,” he tacks on.  He can’t help it.  He doesn’t get Niall’s infatuation with the dish—especially since he’s not even Scottish.

“So you’re not keen on being around someone you know when they’re sick, but you’re willing to give mouth-to-mouth to a complete stranger then?”

Harry’s cheeks burn at the comment.  He still thinks about that sometimes, wonders what it would feel like to press his lips against those full lips under different circumstances.  He’d be a liar if he claimed he hadn’t thought about it at least a few times.

“No,” he clarifies as Zayn’s lips curl up just slightly at the ends, “that ‘ugh’ was for the haggis, not for—”

“Pig’s, sheep’s, or cow’s!” a husky voice booms out.

“Huh?” Zayn asks, and Harry’s right there with him.

The butcher rolls his eyes.  “Ya asked for blood, aye?” he huffs in Zayn’s direction.  “Ah’m telling ya we got pig’s blood, sheep’s blood, or cow’s blood.  If ya want duck’s blood, that’s a specialty.  There’s an Asian grocer down the road has it though.”

Zayn bites his lip.  “I…um….”

“You planning on making black pudding?” Harry guesses.

Zayn looks oddly relieved.  “Yeah, that’s exactly it.  That’s what I was planning on doing, like.  I’m gonna make black pudding, yeah.”  He nods his head for emphasis and Harry can’t help thinking how cute this boy is…once you get past the whole devastatingly handsome bit.

“Well, my dad, before he passed on, used to make Lancashire black pudding—not that that was what killed him or anything.”  He sees that Zayn’s staring at him a bit dumbstruck, and he knuckles his forehead.  His sister, Gemma, says he’s the king of turning any situation awkward and this has to be a classic example.  “Anyway, I think he used pig’s blood in his recipe if that helps.”

Zayn looks uncomfortable, pulling at the collar of his purple jumper.  “I…uh…don’t eat pigs.”

“Oh, don’t suppose it matters much which type you use,” Harry replies quickly, doing his best to recover from a second (Third? Fourth?) own goal.  Of course there was a jolly good chance Zayn didn’t eat pork products.  At this point, he really should just stop talking, but it’s like he can’t help himself.  “Blood is blood, right?  I’m sure your dish will taste delicious no matter which you choose.  I mean, I’d personally love to taste your sausage, and I’m not much of a sausage guy myself—”

Harry does stop himself then because _seriously_.

Zayn coughs in an effort to cover an embarrassed laugh and Harry appreciates the effort.  Neither Niall nor Liam would’ve let him live that last comment down.  Not in a million, trillion, gazillion years.

“Listen,” the butcher says in a strained voice, “although it may seem like I’ve go’ all bloody day to stand here, the actual fact is that ah dinnae.  Ya want the blood or nae?”

“Yeah, sorry, mate.  I’ll take the cow’s blood,” Zayn tells him, and the butcher heads towards the till.

“Ya want anything?” the butcher asks, addressing Harry this time. 

“Yeah, I’ll have a haggis—the family size, please.”

The shop owner seems satisfied with this request—even pleased by it. 

“Ooh, by the way, do you sell a vegetarian version?” Harry asks, remembering that he’s been dying to try one.

The butcher stares at him a long time as if he’s just insulted the man’s entire culture.  Zayn makes a strange choking noise, and Harry turns to see him covering his mouth, his broad shoulders shaking.

Harry can’t win for losing today.  He really can’t.

When Harry gets the courage to look back up towards the counter, the man is filling their orders, muttering something that sounds like “ _bloody English_ ” under his breath and then something Harry can’t understand.  Really though, Harry can’t blame him.

A short time later, they’re back on the pavement.  Zayn looks anxious all of a sudden, like he half wants to say something and half wants to flee.  He glances up at the heavy, grey clouds blanketing the city, and oddly, it seems to pacify him.  Then, without warning, he turns his intense gaze on Harry, and the Cheshire boy feels like he’s been transformed into a bowl of trifle. 

Harry clears his throat.  “Remind me never to walk into a butcher’s shop again, yeah?”  It lightens the mood, and for once, he’s said the right thing. 

Zayn smiles self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck.  A flash of black ink arrests Harry’s attention, and he finds himself mesmerised by all the tattoos peeking out from the loose collar of Zayn’s jumper.  He hadn’t noticed them the other day for one reason or another.  But now, he lets his gaze linger on the artwork as it dances over the well-defined collarbones that Harry would give anything to—

“My eyes are up here,” Zayn informs him drily, and Harry wishes the pavement would just open up and end his misery already.  He’s about to stammer out an apology when Zayn waves him off.  “Nah, you’re good—as long as you’re not some judgmental prick at least.  But yeah, I don’t mind if you look at my tattoos.  I mean, that’s what they’re there for, like.  Right?  I’m just being an ass.  Don’t pay any mind, yeah?”

“No, I _was_ staring; you caught me,” Harry admits, palms up.  “But I was just admiring them, I swear.  I like tattoos.  A lot, actually.”  He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the hodgepodge of tattoos there.

“You ever thinking about getting one professionally done?” Zayn asks, and Harry’s horrified until he sees the twitch in the other boy’s lips.

“Shut up, you,” Harry says, pretending to be offended.  His good mate and main tattoo artist back home was always griping about Harry’s penchant for getting random, cheeky designs permanently marked on his skin.  After Harry got the ‘ _You Booze You Lose_ ’ tatt in Edinburgh last year, Brandon refused to speak to him for a month.

“I was just taking the piss.  That rose is sick; reminds me of one of mine.”  He taps the inside of his elbow but makes no move to roll up the sleeve of his jumper.  

“So…you wanna grab a bite?” Harry asks out of nowhere.  He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

“A bite, huh?” Zayn repeats, a small smirk forming on his lips like Harry’s just made a gaffe.  “Maybe another time,” he replies, and Harry tries not to look too deflated.  “I’m a bit, um, out of sorts today—in case you haven’t noticed.”

Harry wants to remind him that he’s only ever seen the boy when he’s ‘out of sorts’ but decides against it.  Harry takes a closer look at the other boy now, and yes, he looks knackered.  His complexion is rather pale and contrasts sharply with the black hair he’s now running long fingers through.  Zayn’s eyes have gone a dark olive colour and there are even darker circles under them, but he doesn’t appear quite as ill as he did the other day.  Harry doubts whether this boy could ever truly look bad.

“You look just fine to me,” Harry says coyly before dipping his eyes down.  “I mean to say, you look, er, healthier than you did last time.  You could still use a good meal I bet though.”

Zayn eyes him warily.  “Harry, I told you I wasn’t interested in—”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Harry chokes out because it sounded like he was being pushy and might even be asking Zayn out on a _date_ , for crying out loud.  “I just meant, um, in general.” 

“Okay…well, thanks, _mum_ ,” the raven-haired boy returns and Harry cringes.  “Well, see you around,” he adds, tipping his head in an archaic fashion like he’s a gentleman of bygone days before walking off.  Harry’s flat’s in the same direction so he awkwardly trails a few yards behind.  They continue like that for a couple of blocks before Zayn halts in his tracks, swivelling around abruptly.  There’s a sloshing sound as he does so, and Harry’s unpleasantly reminded of what Zayn’s carrying.

Zayn regards Harry suspiciously as the latter closes the distance between them in a couple of short strides.  “You _sure_ you aren’t following me?” Zayn challenges, and there’s more than a hint of suspicion in his blazing eyes.

Harry’s tongue-tied (which he now suspects is an inevitable side-effect of being around Zayn).  “I…er…um.”  He looks at his hands.  “Well, the thing is….”

To his immense shock, Zayn holds his stomach and begins cackling, eyes glowing amber now.  “Just taking the piss, man,” he manages, trying to pull himself together.  “I know you live this way; haven’t forgotten that, like.”

Harry feels like he should be offended but crazy enough, he isn’t; he’s jolly well relieved.  “You live around here, too?”

“You could say that,” Zayn says guardedly.

There’s a mystery about him that Harry yearns to unravel.  But then, just as he thinks he’ll never get close enough to have a chance, Zayn surprises him again.

“So…you wanna tag along then?”  He doesn’t wait for Harry to respond, just struts away.  Harry has to jog to catch up with him which is quite funny considering he’s got a few centimetres on the other boy—more if you count the heels of the old cowboy boots he’s wearing.

A couple of blocks later, they arrive at Harry’s building.  Zayn’s gaze is focused on the step where Harry found him, and there’s something vulnerable about him now. 

Harry decides to take a chance.  “Maybe we could, um, exchange numbers or something?  I mean, don’t feel obligated to or anything because I, er, helped you out.  I just thought maybe you’d like to hang with my mates and me if you’re not too busy sometime, you know?”

Zayn contemplates this a while, but then steps forward, pulling out an iPhone in a bright green case from his pocket.  “Yeah, go ahead.”

Harry recites his number, and Zayn instantly sends an emoji with his initial to him.  (As if Harry won’t be running up the steps to his flat, two-at-a-time, adding the contact details immediately and committing the phone number to memory just in case.)

“Thanks, got it,” Harry tells him.  “This way you can let me know how the pudding turns out.”

“Huh?”

“The blood pudding you’re making,” Harry prompts.

Zayn seems to get it then, looking back and forth between Harry and the tub he’s holding in an almost comedic fashion.  “Oh, yeah—the _pudding,_ ” he nods animatedly.  “I’m making blood pudding.  Right.”

Harry gets an odd feeling that Zayn’s not being entirely truthful with him which is kind of ridiculous because why would someone lie about making blood pudding?  Harry wonders if the blood is for something else—maybe an art project.  Maybe Zayn is one of those artists who dumps a bucket of blood on his piece to make some sort of a statement.  Zayn doesn’t look the type, but you can’t always judge a book by its cover, as they say.

“Well, cheers for now, I guess,” Zayn says, interrupting Harry’s thoughts which is probably a good thing.

“Yes, take care, Zayn.” 

Harry fumbles for the key in his pocket.  He finds it, then turns to watch in which direction Zayn leaves.  He’s too slow though because Zayn has completely vanished by the time Harry glances back.  Ho-humming, Harry shifts the haggis from his right to left arm, then he’s inside and facing more steps.  Niall and George greet him happily when he enters the flat, distracting him from what he really wants to do:  text his new contact.

He shuts off his mobile when Niall and him are halfway through “Match of the Day.”  Otherwise, he knows it will be too tempting to text the other boy, and Harry doesn’t want to look desperate even if this is purely a friendly arrangement.  He can wait twenty-four hours.  He really can.

Harry wakes up later with a mild headache (the norm of late, to be honest), and a pain in his left arm where he’d been sleeping on it.  He powers on his phone and tries to get his circulation going again while he waits for it to come on.  The first thing he sees is that he has several new messages:

 

_Zayn:  Hey this is Zayn_

_Zayn:  didn’t make the pudding yet but just wanted to say thanks again for saving my life and everything, ha !  ;)_

 

Harry blushes at that.  It was one thing when Niall and Liam were going on about him saving Zayn, but Zayn texting it is a whole other ballgame.  It makes him feel downright giddy.  He scrolls down and notices that the last two texts were sent well past midnight, several hours after the initial messages were sent.

_Zayn:  yeah so you obviously changed your mind about wanting me to text you . Or maybe you were just being polite ?_

_Zayn:  won’t bother you anymore then_

 

Harry wants to slap himself because _honestly_.  He almost falls over himself to text Zayn back, explaining and apologising in a short essay response. 

Waiting the few minutes it takes for the other boy to respond is agonising.  But when Zayn does, any animosity is apparently forgotten with Harry’s explanation.  Before he loses the courage, Harry asks the art student if he’d like to hang out on Thursday.  Five minutes pass and Harry is sure Zayn’s just trying to come up with a polite way to turn him down when…

 

_Zayn:  what time ?_

 

Harry manages to answer before dropping to the floor to do a set of push-ups, followed directly after by a series of star jumps just to get the excess energy out.  He’s done thirty when George comes bowling in, tail wagging excitedly as he tries to run back and forth through Harry’s legs between jumps.  Harry ends up laughing so hard he nearly trips over the little beagle.  He goes down anyway, clumsily collapsing to the floor, out of breath and still chuckling as George runs around him victoriously like he’s a Lilliputian who’s just slain the giant.  The happy animal then jumps on Harry’s chest as if to stake his claim.  Harry smiles up at him and ruffles his short, spotted coat.  George rests his head on his paws, looking down at him fondly with soft hazel eyes that remind Harry of another set of hazels he can’t stop thinking about.

“There’s something about him, George.”

George lifts his head up a notch and tips it to the side. 

“Zayn,” Harry reveals, and he swears the dog’s expression turns sour, trotting off his chest and back towards the living room area.

“George,” Harry clucks, sitting up and swinging his legs around.   George returns sombrely, dragging his back feet and not looking at his owner.  “Yeah, you’re right,” Harry mulls, scratching behind George’s brown ear as the pup leans into it.  “I’m just being silly, aren’t I?”

George responds with a short bark and Harry sighs.  “I _know_ , but you’ve got to admit that it’s kismet or something, him choosing our doorstep and all.”

George doesn’t seem too impressed by the argument though, more focused on a ball of string on the floor, unravelling it carefully. 

“You know you’re going to have to give him a chance.”  George peers up at him with big curious eyes.  “Zayn, I mean.”

The dog lets out a low growl, and Harry gives up.  George never growls.  In fact, Harry didn’t even think the dog _could_ growl until he brought Zayn into the flat a couple of weeks ago.  He knew the dog was smart, but the fact that he seemed to remember Zayn after such a short meeting was almost disconcerting.  Zayn had made a marked impression on the animal, probably because George deemed him as threatening in some way or—

“You jealous, George?  That it?”

It was the dog’s turn to sigh now, burying his head like a misunderstood teenager.  The phone buzzes from the bed, and Harry reaches over to grab it.

 

_Zayn:  Where should I meet you ?_

_Harry:  North end of the Quad. 6:45. :)_

 

He just hopes Zayn’s still talking to him after he finds out exactly where they’re going—or better yet, maybe Harry won’t tell him.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

_I bargained for salvation and they gave me a lethal dose_

-“Shelter from the Storm,” Bob Dylan

**(Zayn)**

 

It’s Thursday, and Zayn’s in a _mood_.

That’s what Louis would say anyway (if Zayn gave two fucks about what Louis says which he most definitely does _not_ ).  Zayn can’t help it though, can’t help longing for a past that was stolen away from him while facing a future that’s eternally empty.  He almost wishes that Harry hadn’t saved him, that he had just left him for dead on that cold, lonely stoop. 

_Almost._

Because the thing is, Zayn’s not an expert on vampirism, but he’s pretty sure he had fallen into a starvation-induced catatonic state, something Cal was always warning him about.  Without a detectable heartbeat, some quack could’ve well labelled him as dead (as in _dead_ -dead).  Louis said it happened all the time back in the old days, back when they would bury cataleptics (most of whom were vampires) ‘alive.’

And that was some nasty shit right there.  Zayn’s had to deal with a lot of things over the years, but thank-fuck, digging himself out of a premature burial hasn’t been one of them.

So really, any way you looked at it, Harry had done him a favour, and call him old-fashioned, but debts are supposed to be repaid.  That’s why he’s meeting up with Harry tonight—even if he’s not happy about it.  Of course, Zayn’s not stupid enough to think his hanging out with Harry for one night is going to somehow tip the cosmic scale back in his favour, but it’s a start. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean he can’t sulk about it.  He’d rather be staying in, rather avoid the outside world—especially since it’s his fucking birthday (not that he’s counting anymore, but it’s the principle of the thing).  He’d even rather do something productive like work on his sculpture.  (Okay, so maybe there’s no way he’d get anything accomplished there with how massively uninspired he’s been, but again, it’s the principle that counts.)

Still lamenting the opportunity cost of going out, he glares at the clock.  His state of mind doesn’t improve any when he calculates he’s got less than an hour before he’s supposed to meet Harry in St. George’s Square, and he still hasn’t even bothered to fix up his hair or select a decent outfit from his wardrobe.  It’s typical Zayn, really.  He figured he’d be fashionably late; he usually is. 

There’s unrest brewing within his breast though.  For some reason, he doesn’t want to disappoint this kid, doesn’t want to keep him waiting.  It’s crazy, but he doesn’t question it.

He also doesn’t question the warmth in his veins, a warmth he hasn’t felt in _years_.

It’s easier that way.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Listen, I don’t mean to be funny,” Zayn begins, scanning the completely deserted room Harry’s taken him to, “but where the fuck are we?”  The large expanse is vacant except for a circle of two dozen cheap grey chairs towards the centre.  Dark wood abounds and there’s a distinct damp smell, like there might be a leak in the roof.  It’s got tall, vaulted ceilings, and he can’t remember what it was purposed for before.  Shit, he can’t even deduce what they’re doing here now.

“Told you; it’s a secret,” Harry cheekily replies, and Zayn’s not too thrilled with the answer.  It must show on his face because Harry immediately rolls his eyes.  “Fine, I’ve brought you to a meeting.”

“Meeting?”

“Yep,” Harry answers with a pop, going over to the coffee machine to grab the carafe before turning on the tap.  “I guess you could call it a support group maybe.”

Zayn narrows his eyes, but Harry’s not looking at him now.  He’s too occupied with getting the water at _precisely_ the 1.8 litre mark (and it is sort of driving Zayn up the wall).  Hands shaking visibly, Harry sets the carafe down on the counter to measure the water level, and it’s clearly over, even as it violently swishes back and forth.  Zayn glides in, stealing the carafe to pour just the right amount back into the sink.  With steady hands, he sets it down again so Harry can approve of the water level. 

“Cheers,” Harry acknowledges, and Zayn pours the water carefully into the machine.

When he’s finished, he dries his hands and watches Harry scoop the coffee into the waiting filter.  Zayn notices a slight tremble in the other boy’s hands still but doesn’t intervene this time; he seems to have it well under control.  Just to be on the safe side, he moves a few feet away from Harry in case he’s the one making the younger boy nervous.  He can’t kerb his curiosity though. 

“So what’s this support group for exactly?”  Zayn’s not too keen on going to a meeting on campus where he’s supposed to volunteer all his problems.  It’s not that Zayn hasn’t got them—problems, that is.  He’s got bucketsful.  Fucking lorry-loads even.  Unfortunately, two-thirds of these problems are directly related to vampirism, and the other third are, well, nobody’s fucking business.  So naturally, Zayn’s got a few qualms about this whole set-up.

“Everything,” Harry hums, flicking on a switch, and the coffee begins percolating with a happy gurgle. 

“So why’d you bring me here?”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, but Zayn can read between the lines.  He hasn’t been on the Earth for this long without being able to detect when someone’s bullshitting him.

“Don’t know?” Harry says non-committedly, looking everywhere but at Zayn’s questioning gaze.  “Thought it would be interesting.  I attend the IC meetings quite frequently, plus I thought maybe you’d like to meet up with my mates afterwards….”

Zayn frowns, not sure how Harry got _that_ idea.  Zayn doesn’t even like meeting up with his own mates most of the time.

“I’m not saying you, uh, have an eating—uh problem—or whatever,” Harry falters, “but I mean, if you did, then maybe that would be something you could talk about tonight.”  The last few words are an incoherent mumble really but Zayn’s got superhuman hearing.  Unfortunately.

Zayn rolls his eyes.  He should’ve known that the boy just wanted to fix him, that he wasn’t really interested in him for him.  “Listen,” he returns gruffly, “I don’t need any help—and I’m not in denial either in case you’re thinking that.”

Harry purses his lips, and it’s clear that he was _definitely_ thinking that.

It’s crystal clear to him now:  Zayn never should have agreed to meet Harry in the first place.  Technically, he didn’t actually agree to attend a fucking support group meeting which really should give him an out.  He doesn’t have to stay here, especially since the place is still a ghost town.  No one could blame him if he just walked straight out the door right now.  Besides, if he weren’t a vampire, he might be a little suspicious as to why Harry’s taken him to such a deserted place anyway.  As it is, Zayn doesn’t have any reason to be concerned.  He could win a physical struggle between the two of them—despite Harry’s size—in 2.7 seconds, maybe less.  Then again, he’s out of practice.

Nah, he could probably take this big friendly giant in front of him even _before_ he was a vampire.

Harry is chewing on his lip, eying him worriedly and Zayn’s feeling like the bell-end of the century. He sighs because he knows he lost.  Might as well grin and bear it.

At least he fed today.  There’s that.

“So, Harry, why do you come to these meetings then?”

Harry perks up then.  “I actually started going to support that friend I told you about, the one who runs the animal shelter.  I’m a vet,” he states as an afterthought, “well, I mean, I’m not one _yet_ , but that’s my course of study—veterinary medicine.”  He coughs into his fist.  “Um, yeah so.”

Zayn can’t help but smile because this kid is so fucking adorable in every way.  “That’s sick.”  Harry brightens at that and Zayn basks in the warmth.  “Sooo you gonna tell me why your friend decided to give up his Thursday nights for this?”

“Yeah, Liam won’t mind if I tell you.  He was an exercise addict, struggled with his body image a bit.  He’s doing much better now though.”

Zayn nods.  “So that’s the only reason why you come to these meetings?”

“Well, I’m mates with the counsellor who heads the meetings up.  His name’s James; you’ll meet him in a bit.”

“No other reason at all, Harry?” Zayn presses before barely concealing a smirk as he asks, “So you’re not secretly a sex addict or anything are you?”

Harry’s jaw drops open, but then he quickly clamps it shut before Zayn gets any ideas (he already has them).  “No, um, nothing like that.  I just…I kind of, well, help out?  I’m technically the secretary, I think?  I contact people if there are any changes or cancellations in meetings and do the advertising, that kind of thing.  But I’m not saying I don’t get anything from the meetings,” he rushes out, “because that’s not the case at all.  I just, er, look at it as preventative, you know?”

Zayn does know because of course Harry is fucking perfect in every way except one…

_He’s human._

“So what time does it start?”

“Half seven.”

“Why’d we get here so fucking early then?” Zayn gripes, trying not to sound too much like an ass but probably failing by epic proportions.

“I have a few things to set up beforehand, and, well, I like to be early,” Harry shrugs apologetically.  He seems to do a lot of things apologetically and that might be the only thing Zayn wants to change about him. 

Well, that and the fact that Harry likes to be early and he doesn’t.  Something’s gotta give there.

“So what does this IC stand for then?”

“Invisible Choir,” Harry informs him.  “I came up with the name actually,” he blushes.

“Invisible Choir?  Like from the George Elliot poem?”

Harry’s face brightens.  “Can’t believe you recognise that!  No one ever does.  You’re amazing, Zayn.”

He’s suddenly feeling embarrassed, and that’s not an emotion Zayn’s very familiar with so he coughs, shrugs it off.  “Well, you’re going to have to explain the connection to me, mate, because as I remember it, that one’s about pushing up daisies.  ‘O May I join the choir invisible,” he recites, dusting off the recesses of his memory, “Of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence.”  The bit about the “immortal dead” hits close to home, but he thinks it best not to share that with Harry.

“I chose it because it’s so easy, like, to feel invisible when you’re at uni.  Sometimes it’s hard to know where to go for help or support,” Harry says shyly.  “There aren’t any labels with this group so people on the outside don’t judge you, and there’s an open door for everyone, for every issue.  If people need more specific supports, then James handles that and directs them where to go.  But basically the gist of the IC is that we aren’t alone in our struggles, that we’re all in this together, and that we help one another to become the best version of ourselves—like a choir.”

“Well said, Harry,” a new voice compliments, clapping as he ambles into the room.  The man’s got a cherub face but a wicked glint in his eye.  After a few swift introductions, Zayn discovers it’s the counsellor Harry was talking about.

People start to file in soon after that and the chairs fill up quickly.  Zayn helps Harry bring out a few more, careful not to grab too many at a time and raise suspicion.

He always has to be careful really.

The meeting commences, and it isn’t as bad as he thought it would be if he’s honest.  That being said, he thought it would be a total fucking drag, like watching paint dry kind of boring, but it isn’t.  The James guy is kind of nice, and it’s not terrible, not really.

And maybe Harry was right, maybe it’s good for Zayn to be in this environment (although he’d never admit it aloud).  There’s an interesting mix of people here, and Zayn’s always loved to people-watch.  There’s a footballer sat next to some kid with glasses and a nervous tick who Zayn helped find a book for in the library last week.  (The kid’s reading English (like Zayn did once upon a time), and it’s a little disturbing how quickly Zayn’s picked up on the layout of the new library.)  Then, there’s a tall redhead who he’s sure is in half of his art classes even though he couldn’t tell you her name if his life depended on it.

Zayn’s gaze next falls on the guy directly opposite him who rushed into the room seconds before James called the meeting to order.  The guy reminds him of David Beckham, all quiff and crinkly-eyed smile.  When Beckham Jr. speaks up in group, he sounds genuinely nice, but Zayn sort of wants to kick his teeth in anyway.  (And it has nothing to do with the fact that this kid won’t stop ogling Harry.)  Then, there’s a girl with long black plaits and a vintage Jimi Hendrix tee.  The shirt’s sick and reminds him of when he saw Hendrix with Louis at the Saville back in ’67.  It was the year after he broke up with his last girlfriend, a pretty but vapid vampire, who literally told him after nearly a decade of being together that she was only with him to “pass the time.”

 _Yeah._ Half a century on, it still gets to him sometimes.  Maybe that’s why he’s been single so long….

“Did you have anything you’d like to share”—James begins, checking his clipboard quickly—“Zayn, is it?”

Ten minutes ago and if Harry wasn’t sat right next to him, Zayn probably would’ve told James to mind his own fucking business.  As it stands now, Zayn’s feeling like he’s drowning in past fuck-ups after a stroll down memory lane he never signed up for.

He realises that the whole fucking circle is staring at him expectantly now, and he turns to glare at Harry because it’s that curly-haired devil’s fault he’s in this situation at all.  He doesn’t quite achieve a glare though because Harry’s looking at him, all fond and encouraging.  Zayn has to look away because it’s too much.  He isn’t used to this.  He stares straight ahead instead at Beckham Jr. who’s now giving Zayn the crinkly-eyed smile he’s been giving to Harry for the past twenty-three minutes (not that Zayn’s counting or anything).

“No,” he answers James at last.  “No, I’m good.”

He can feel the disappointment radiating off the counsellor and Harry.  Fuck, even Beckham Jr. seems disappointed in him.

Good thing Zayn doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of it.  He slides back into his shell, and only half tunes in for the rest of the meeting.

He shouldn’t have to put up with this shit…and on his birthday, too.  Bloody hell.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Of course, it pans out that Harry’s best mates with Beckham Jr.  He couldn’t be pals with the girl who was chewing on her hair like it was a stalk of celery or that scrawny kid from the library who was more interested in conjugating verbs than conjugating anything else.  No, Harry has to be best mates with Beckham Jr. who not only resembles Golden Balls in the looks department but in physical build as well.

The three of them are leaving (after Harry takes an extra ten minutes saying goodbye to and shaking the hand of every last bloody person who attended), and Zayn can’t wait to get to wherever the hell they’re going.  He briefly considers bailing right then and there, but he owes Harry so he’ll grit it out for one night.

He almost changes his mind though when he’s left alone with Beckham Jr. as Harry’s called off to conference with James about something before he leaves.

“So…Zayn, yeah?” Beckham Jr starts.  “The name’s Liam; I’m one of Harry’s mates.  He’s told me a lot about you.”

Zayn wonders how that’s accurate since Harry knows fuck-all about him besides the fact that Zayn made an ass of himself by collapsing in front of his flat.  “Oh, he’s uh, told me some about you, too,” Zayn says awkwardly although all he can really remember right now is how Harry told him that Liam struggled with his body image in the past, and he’s not about to mention _that_.

“So you’re an art student then?”

“Yeah,” Zayn admits carefully.  “What are you reading?”

“Oh no, I’m not a student,” Liam corrects him and now Zayn’s confused.  He thought everyone at the meeting was a student.  Liam seems to understand his confusion because he quickly addends his statement, “No, I mean, I _was_ a student, but then I dropped out, ended up taking a shorter course elsewhere and working.  James still lets me attend the meetings obviously.  He thinks that veterans have something to offer, I guess,” he says, a hand carding nervously through his brown quiff.

Zayn bets he’s the one making Liam anxious.  Louis always said he had an intense as fuck stare so he attempts to school his face into a more congenial expression.  “So, uh, what do you do, Liam?”

Liam’s eyes light up.  “Oh, I run the animal rescue centre here in Edinburgh,” he tells Zayn in a smooth midlands accent.  “We do a bit of everything, you know--rehoming, animal cruelty prevention, community education, rescues….”

In other words, Liam saves puppies for a living.

_Great.  Just fucking wonderful._

Zayn’s beyond relieved when Harry (finally) returns because he’s had more than enough of Liam by this point.  Zayn’s got no idea why it pisses him off that Liam’s the spitting image of a young David Beckham, or that he saves puppies, or that he’s so bloody _nice_.

But it does.  It definitely fucking does.

**\+ + +**

 

When they get to the bar (a classic, upscale Irish pub really), Zayn feels more comfortable.  Even though it’s smack dab in the middle of the Old Town, it’s not one he’s been to.  Instantly, he likes the ambience, and it evokes a sense of déjà vu within him.  It brings him back to when he’d bus tables for a ha’penny at his grandparents’ pub in Bradford.  When he was little, he’d sit at the bar sometimes and stare in wonder at the various spirits, marvel at how artfully Grandpa Walter would mix them.  He’d always tousle Zayn’s hair lovingly and tell him he ought to play outside with the other boys (even though the other boys didn’t like him because he was too clever or too brown or too _something_ ).

He wonders if it’s still there, wonders if someone changed the name from Brennan’s to O’Toole’s or if it’s a Tesco, Barclay’s, or McDonald’s now.

Maybe it’s a car park even.  Maybe all that his nan and Grandpa Walter worked towards is a fucking car park.

“You okay?” Harry inquires, eyebrows knitted together in that way of his.

Zayn nods without looking into Harry’s eyes.  It’s a little impossible to explain how the passage of time depresses the fuck out of him, makes him feel like he’s about to dry heave.  Louis always swore Zayn’s main problem is how tightly he clutches onto his human life.  Zayn hates to give him credit for anything, but hell, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

Zayn sees the bartender is stood expectantly in front of them so he does his best to shake his morose thoughts away.  He needs a distraction—a distraction and a drink.  “I’ll take a whiskey and soda—Jameson, yeah?”

For some reason, the guy fucking _beams_ at him.  “Stall the ball…you said Jameson, right?  _Irish_ whiskey?  Not Scotch—you sure now?”

Zayn regards him curiously, lips twisted into an amused smirk.  “Yeah, why?”

The bartender reaches over and slaps Harry on the back much to Zayn’s surprise.  If Zayn didn’t know better, he’d swear the kid’s eyes were glistening.  “This one’s a keeper, Haz,” he says in a thick Irish brogue.  “Forget everything I said.  He’s solid, not like the fecking jackeen ya brought in here the last time.”

“Shut it, you,” Harry laughs.

The Irishman with the light brown hair and soft blue eyes leans over the bar with a conspiratorial look.  “Now mind you, I’ve not anything against good Scotch whisky—excepting of course that the Scottish can’t even spell the damn word—but that eejit Harry brought in last time tried to tell me that Johnny Walker Red was the fecking end-all, be-all.  Johnny Walker Red!” Niall repeats, throwing up his hands at the audacity.

Zayn bites his lip to hide a smile.  “So what’d you say?”

“Well, couldn’t just let him go around telling other customers that, could I?  I’m trying to keep the reputation of this place up, eh?”  The Irishman rests on his forearms.  “So I said—and I quote— “Look _Johnny_ , why dontcha _walk_ out that _red_ fecking door then.”

Zayn hears Harry groan loudly as he snickers into the back of his hand.  “You didn’t!”

“I did,” the bartender contends with pride. “Why you can even ask Payno here; he was what you’d call a witness to it.”

Zayn glances beyond Harry where Niall’s indicating, and he sees that he means Liam.  “It’s true,” Liam asserts.  “’Course, I think Niall here left out the part about how the guy was a dick to Harry the first time he picked him up at the flat.”

Suddenly, a lightbulb comes on in Zayn’s head.  “Niall?  You’re flatmates with Harry, aren’t you?”  He looks at Harry accusatorily because, really, this kid is shit at introductions.

“I was about to introduce you, but you two seemed to be doing just fine on your own.”  Harry’s pouting a little, bottom lip protruding, and Zayn would think he looked adorable if he were to allow himself to think that way.

(He doesn’t.)

 

**\+ + +**

 

They don’t talk about anything that happened within the meeting.  It’s sort of an unspoken rule, Zayn figures.  They also don’t get too personal about anything, and Zayn’s definitely good with that.  Sharing isn’t exactly his strong suit.

Zayn manages to force himself to relax, to enjoy a few drinks.  The alcohol doesn’t affect him much, but he still likes the taste, still feels the burn down his throat and the warmth that spreads throughout his system.

He liked Niall instantly, and this Liam character is starting to grow on him (once he’s figured out that he’s got no designs on Harry whatsoever—not that Zayn does either, of course).  Liam’s into comic books which is cool…until Zayn almost mucks everything up with one stupid comment.

“You know,” Zayn says, sipping on his fourth drink and feeling only slightly buzzed.  “I remember how floored I was when they started printing the books in colour, like.  I mean, Iron Man fucking came to life for me.”

Liam gives him a funny look.  “But they were always in colour, no?”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “Nah, I’m not saying the American imports; I mean the ones printed here, and….”  Zayn stops suddenly because he knows he just made a massive snafu there.  Shit.  The black-and-white Marvel UK ones—he wasn’t supposed to remember those.

“Yeah, you’re right of course,” Zayn laughs nervously.  He feels like he’s sweating even though he knows he isn’t.  “I used to read the old ones because my, uh, uncle would give them to me every Sunday from his own collection, like.  They came out before we were born.  Yeah.  Way before.”  Zayn downs his drink and hopes Liam doesn’t observe his tenseness.

The Wolverhampton lad accepts the bullshit story hook-line-and-sinker though, and Zayn vows to tread more carefully from now on.  He doesn’t want to have to compel anyone—especially when he sucks royally at the whole compelling business.  Sure, he can compel a human alright as long as he’s physically and mentally up to it, and as long as he’s okay with the other person forgetting absolutely everything about him (and then some).  It’s all or nothing; no in-betweens with Zayn.  Louis, the king of finesse, has been trying to teach him how to use the power more delicately for decades, but Zayn’s just accepted that he’s shit at it.  It’s like trying to teach the Hulk to cross-stitch.  It ain’t gonna happen.

Besides the one massive gaffe, the night goes better than Zayn could’ve thought.  It’s nice to be among people again.  Sure, he sees students and such, but it’s been ages since he’s allowed himself to make any real connections.  He thinks it’s largely due to Harry—knows it must be, rather.  Harry is so kind, so easy to talk to and just _be_ with.  He’s never met anyone quite like Harry before.

It’s precisely what he’s thinking as he takes a long drag on his fag and studies the waxing crescent and dots of light reflected in the undulating water below.  He needed a cigarette, but he needed a short break from the madness of the bar even more.  He’d been living a quiet, solitary existence for so long before moving back to the city.  Sometimes, it all just overwhelms him.  Sometimes, he just needs a minute.

“It’s nice out here—not as cold as I thought,” Harry observes just after Zayn’s put his cig out.  Zayn has to grip onto the railing to steady himself.  He had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Harry approach.

He really is a shit vampire sometimes.

“You know,” Harry muses aloud, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

Zayn blinks because the words came out of Harry’s mouth.  It’s almost scary how often this kid seems to be attuned with his thinking.  The thought makes him shiver.

“You cold?”

Harry places a hand on top of his, and there it is again— _the warmth_.  Zayn looks questioningly over at Harry, and his face is bathed in moonlight, and he’s so Goddamn pretty, and there are fucking stars _everywhere_ , and—

Zayn snaps his hand away as if he’d been burned.  He stumbles away a few metres, away to a place where the moonlight isn’t quite so threatening.

“Zayn?” Harry calls after him.

He hears Harry approaching this time, his boots clattering on the cobblestone.  Zayn knows he has to say something before this gets out of hand.

“I don’t date....”  Zayn stops.  He was going to say _humans,_ but he catches himself in the nick of time.  It’s true though—Zayn _doesn’t_ date humans.  The relationship thing is too hard; besides it’s taboo in the vampire world if not exactly illegal.  Sex isn’t off limits, but anything serious…well, it’s just a bloody waste of time.  An exercise in futility.  Mindless angst and needless suffering.

Zayn stays as far away from that shit as possible.

“You don’t date, or…?”

Zayn waits patiently for Harry to finish his question, but then Harry makes a self-deprecating noise instead.  “I see,” the brunette murmurs, disappointment apparent although he tries to conceal it.  “I’ve been listening to Liam all night.  He was convinced you were…well, it doesn’t matter.”

Now Zayn’s completely baffled.

It must show on his face, too, because Harry laughs ironically.  “Liam was convinced you were into me which is absolutely ridiculous because, well, you’re into girls, aren’t you?”

Now Zayn gets it.  Harry thinks he doesn’t date _dudes_.  He’s about to correct Harry when he thinks better of it.  “Um, yeah,” Zayn replies, nodding.  “Yeah, I like girls.”

It’s not a lie.  Not really.

It’s actually a good excuse—if Harry thinks he’s straight—and a good safeguard as well.  Zayn could use this to his advantage.  He doesn’t need a relationship right now (especially with a human for God’s sake), but a friend?  Yeah, he could use a friend.  He hasn’t had one of those for a while, not since Cal fucked off to share beds with the douchebag of Doncaster, a.k.a. Louis Tomlinson, a.k.a. the asshole who made Zayn like _this_ without even having the fucking decency to—

“Zayn?”  There’s a distinct edge to Harry’s voice now and his eyes are hard as jade.  “Look, I swear I didn’t mean to make anything weird between us earlier, but if you’re not okay with the fact I’m gay then just say it.  I’m not gonna hide who I am.”

Zayn groans inwardly, kicking a large stone at his feet and watching as it rockets into the peaceful water below.  Harry probably thinks he’s an asswipe who gets offended when a guy so much as looks at him now.  It makes Zayn want to tear his hair out.  “Sorry, no.  I was just a bit distracted there for a moment.  It’s cool, man—what you said, I mean.  No worries.”  He somehow garners up the courage to look Harry in the eye again.  “So, um, we’re cool, yeah?”

Harry smiles at him and suddenly Zayn’s not sure if he’s going to be able to pull off this whole friend thing.  “Yeah, we are _totally_ cool.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry, Liam, and Zayn end up taking the same cab.  They leave at eleven because they all have places to be in the morning unlike Niall whose night is just beginning.

Liam departs first, waving a little drunkenly to the two left in the cab.  “Behave yourself,” he slurs to Harry whose face turns beet red.  (Again, Zayn is grateful he fed today.)

“Sorry about that,” Harry apologises after the other boy is gone, and he’s shouted the next address to the driver—his flat.  “I didn’t tell him yet that, you know….”

Zayn understands; Harry doesn’t need to finish.  They’re quiet for the rest of the ride…until they arrive at Harry and Niall’s flat.

“Fancy a drink?” Harry offers, chewing on his lower lip, “I mean, just as good mates, of course.   We could do, like, lad things—you know, watch rugger highlights and have a belching contest or something?”

Zayn snorts.  “Not really my thing, mate.”

“Oh.  Would you fancy a bite then?  I didn’t see you eat all night and—”

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn warns tiredly.  “I ate before I met up with you.  Besides, you’re not following the fundamental rule of the IC club, and I’m fairly certain you came up with it yourself.”

“The first rule of IC club is we don’t talk about IC club?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“But you didn’t share anything at the meeting,” Harry says slyly, “so therefore I’m not breaking any rules.”

Zayn chuckles, slides a hand through his hair.  “Guess, it’s fair play then, but I really don’t want anything to eat so—”

“Metre’s running,” the cab driver informs them, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.  Zayn had almost forgotten they weren’t alone even with the dull hum of the engine.

“Just one drink?” Harry tries again.

“Think I’ve had enough honestly.  Niall’s quick with refills.”

“Tea?  Coffee?”

“No, it’s late.  I don’t need any more caffeine.”

“Cranberry juice then?” Harry asks hopefully.

Zayn cracks a smile.  “Maybe another time,” he replies quietly.  It physically hurts him to say no, to see the way Harry’s face falls.  And then, before he knows it, he’s caving.  “Yeah, actually.  I could come up for a few minutes, have a glass of cranberry juice.  Why the fuck not?”

Harry’s eyes light up, and that’s when Zayn knows he’s so fucking fucked.  “Glad you agreed,” he says, voice all bubbly now.  “George has been missing you.”

Zayn cocks a brow at that because dogs don’t particularly like him (vampires really) in general, but this tiny beagle in particular seems to have a personal vendetta against Zayn.  His theory’s proved correct when Harry lets them in, and George starts howling like a banshee.  It’s not long before Harry sends him off to his shame corner again, and Zayn almost feels bad at this point because he knows it not really the dog’s fault.  It’s Zayn’s.

It’s Zayn’s fault because he’s a fucking monstrosity.  George is just the universe’s way of reminding him what he is.  Zayn doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in this flat.  Harry’s too good for him.

Zayn politely sips the juice as Harry tries to make idle conversation.  He isn’t asking exactly penetrating questions, but Zayn still closes himself off, giving vague answers or mumbling ‘yes’ or ‘no’ where appropriate.  The telly’s on in the background, and Zayn pretends to watch it.  Soon, Harry gives up and offers him the sofa if he wants it, says he doesn’t want Zayn to go home alone with how much he drank.

Zayn accepts because he’s too lazy to argue.  And it’s his birthday.

And maybe, just maybe, he hopes he’ll be able to blag Harry’s duvet from him and dream about if things were different.  It’s his favourite hobby now.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  

 _'Cause I don't wanna fall in love_  
_If you don't wanna try_  
 _But all that I've been thinking of_  
 _Is maybe that you might_

-“Say You Love Me,” Jessie Ware

 

**(Harry)**

 

“Don’t fecking tell me this is gonna be a thing now,” Niall grumps, nodding towards the Zayn-shaped lump on their sofa.

“You just noticed he was there?” Harry asks, looking up from where he’s fiddling with the electric hob.  The tremor’s in his hands again, but he’s decided that’s not something he’s going to think about.

“Yeah, me, Bressie, and the lads were on the lash last night.  Didn’t get home ‘til after two, and I was so blootered I was lucky I found me bedroom door,” he yawns.  He sits dopey-eyed at the table, pulling at the clinging material of the white t-shirt he’s wearing and scratching his stomach.

Harry pours a tall cup of coffee for him.  He adds two sugars, a little cream, and a dash of cinnamon—just the way Niall likes it (when he isn’t adding something stronger anyway).

“Ta,” Niall thanks him before bringing it to his lips with both hands and ingesting half of it in one go.  Harry smiles as his flatmate sets the mug down and wipes away the coffee with the back of his hand.  “So, does he actually have a gaff or is crashing on our sofa gonna be a permanent thing?”

Harry holds a finger to his lips.  “Shhh, don’t wake him.  I don’t think he got much sleep last night.”

Niall raises an eyebrow and smirks into his coffee.

“No, nothing happened,” Harry quickly corrects him while trying to pre-empt the pink tinge he knows is making its way to his cheeks.  “He…he isn’t gay.”

“Well, that’s good news for the female population of the world but not such good news for you, mate.”

Harry pretends not to know what Niall’s driving at.  “Why do you say that?”

“Well, look at him,” Niall states with a backward wave of his hand, and really, Harry has to admit he’s got a point.  Zayn looks like a sleeping prince right now.  A really beautiful sleeping prince.

“Plus,” Niall continues, “he’s not a jackeen; he laughs at my jokes—and even yours and let’s face it, that’s a rare quality; and he guzzles Jameson like it’s mother’s milk to him.  Think he could drink me under the table and that’s saying something.”  Niall finishes his coffee and exhales contentedly.  “I mean, shit the bed, if that ain’t boyfriend material, then you can suck my dick.”

Harry shakes his head and flips off Niall before flipping the French Toast before it gets too brown on one side.  He turns the heat down and adds the sauce to the pan.  The scent of orange and vanilla wafts through the small flat.  There’s a familiar pitter-pattering of tiny feet as George comes in to check out if there’s a treat for him.  (There is, although it’s not the one he wanted if George’s unhappy snuff means anything.)

“You hungry, Niall?”

“Fuck,” Niall curses as he inhales deeply, eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy, “I’m so hungry I could ate a reverend mother.  And that smells so good I could bloody marry ya myself.”

“I think Allison might have something to say about that,” Harry reminds him, chuffed by the compliment to his cooking nonetheless.  “And don’t swear in front of George,” he admonishes.  The beagle looks up at the mention of his name before unhappily nosing his vitamin-rich treat again.

“Sorry if I offended ya, George.”  Niall nods to the pup.  “But back to your savage culinary talents.  I mean, what guy wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his life with _that_.”  He motions towards Harry and the steaming pan he’s taking off the hob.

 _Zayn,_ Harry glumly answers in his head.

He’s gripping the handle of the skillet when it happens.  His fingers go numb, and he’s too distracted to catch his error.  Before he knows it, the handle slips away from him, and the dish he’s just spent the past forty minutes on is about to be binned.

Then, there’s a rush of wind, a sudden movement behind him, and a hand is reaching for the frying pan just before it hits the ground.  A single triangle of toast slips out anyway and George snatches it up victoriously in his teeth.

“Jaysus,” Niall whistles.  “That was some reaction, mate.”

Harry’s still shaking although he isn’t sure why.  He writes it off, tells himself it’s because he almost dropped the pan.  His heart’s racing, and he feels flush.  “Thanks,” he manages but Zayn’s grip on him hasn’t lessened for some reason.

“You okay?” Zayn whispers in his ear, and Harry gulps.  He nods weakly and drops into the closest chair.  He feels fine, he really does…now.  It’s just Zayn’s nearness making him weak in the knees at this point.

Zayn sets the hot pan on the trivet and sits across from him.

“Shit,” Niall curses, and Harry doesn’t have the strength to admonish him this time.  “I didn’t know you were even up, let alone ready to sprint the hundred metre and give that Bolt fella a run for his money.”

Zayn just smiles enigmatically and shrugs it off.

Then panic fills Harry as he realises that Zayn is awake, that he may have heard his conversation with Niall, that he may be thinking God-only-knows what.  “So,” he begins casually, “how long have you, um, been awake?”

Zayn’s eyes glimmer.  “Why, you two been slagging me off or summat?”

“No,” Harry replies the same time as Niall says “yes.”  Harry glares at his flatmate but Zayn just seems amused.

“No, I promise I just woke up,” Zayn tells him.  “I was just walking towards the kitchen when I saw the pan was about to go flying.”

“Well, personally,” Niall begins with a full mouth, “I thank you from the very bottom of my Irish heart.”

“Or stomach,” Harry deadpans, winking at the boy whose raven hair is sticking out in all directions, but nevertheless, looks like he could’ve walked out of a photoshoot.

_How is that even humanly possible?_

George comes to sit by Zayn’s feet and Zayn looks questioningly up at Harry and Niall now.

“See, I told you he’d come around,” Harry says tenderly.  There’s something about seeing Zayn smile down at George as he tentatively reaches out to pat the beagles head that pulls on his heartstrings.  “He just had to get used to you, that’s all.”

“Nah, think Zayn won him over when he let one of them orange-vanilla dreams hit the floor,” Niall chuckles.  “Bet you’ve got a pal for life now, but I can’t tell you whether it’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Well, thanks for letting me crash here,” Zayn says, running a hand through his messy locks.  “I promise it won’t become a habit.”

“No problem,” Niall answers, and Harry can tell he’s being genuine now.  “You got a lecture today?”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies, checking the clock on the stove and getting to his feet.  “I’d best be going; don’t wanna be late.”

“Did you want anything to eat first?  Coffee?” Harry tries.  “Cranberry juice?”

Niall gives Harry an appalled look at the last suggestion but Zayn chuckles.  “Nah, I’m good.  I’ll have a cuppa when I get home.”

“I could make you one here?” Harry offers.  “We’ve got Earl Grey and then just about every herbal tea you can think of—”

“Listen,” Niall interrupts, “don’t try the green tea in the orange tin, mate.  I’m telling ya, it tastes like a mixture of grass and yak piss.”

Zayn’s snorts and his eyes crinkle up.  “How the living fuck do you know what yak’s piss tastes like, man?”

“Long story,” Niall answers like it’s a memory he doesn’t want to revisit.  It doesn’t seem to affect his appetite though as he shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.  “Oh, and watch your language in front of the little one here,” he adds, and Harry wants to swat him because _really_.

“So how about that cuppa, then?”

Zayn just shakes his head, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.  “Cheers for the offer, Harry, but I’m a bit set in my ways.  I need my Yorkshire Gold or I’m an absolute, er, monster.”

“Not a morning person then?” Niall poses.

“You could say that,” Zayn reveals like it’s the punchline of some inside joke only he knows.  He grabs his things, thanks them again, and then is out the door in the blink of an eye.

The dust hasn’t even settled before Niall’s on Harry like gum on the back of a postage stamp.

“Fucking _cranberry_ juice, Harry?  _Really_?” Niall reproaches, leaning back in his chair as he stealthily tries to slide another triangle to George under the table.  Harry snatches it before George can, and the dog heads off in the direction of the shame corner without a word, dragging his dignity and back legs behind him.

“George,” Harry calls after him.  “You can come back, Georgie.  I’m mad at Uncle Niall—not you.”  The beagle’s ears pick up at that, and he trots towards Harry happily, licking his hand when Harry bends down to pet him.  Then, he’s off to the window, paws against the sill, watching the vehicles and people as they pass directly below.

“Aw, Harry, he just had one, mate.”

“One’s enough, bartender,” Harry grouches, going to bung it into the bin but then changing his mind.  “I had to help operate on a lab’s pancreas last week because it ate too much toast so don’t even start with me, Horan.”  He holds the slice between his teeth as he pours some coffee in a tumbler to take with him to his nine o’clock seminar.

“Well cheers for giving me that visual to start my day off with.”

“Well cheers for not questioning the way I’m raising my dog,” Harry returns snappily before he realises how snarky he just sounded.  Harry’s about to apologise but Niall holds up a hand to stop him.

“It’s alright,” Niall assures him.  “I know you’re having a bastard of a morning here.  That attempt to win over the Boy-God with your domestic prowess fell flat so it’s understandable.  Right, George?” Niall inquires loudly, nodding his head up and down exaggeratedly.  The beagle, paws still on the windowsill, mirrors the reaction just as Harry taught him to do.

_Bloody fantastic.  Now his dog’s even against him._

Harry sighs deeply as he finishes off the toast and clears the dishes.  He can’t win for losing today (or any day lately it seems).

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry’s sitting in his last lecture of the day, wishing he could be doing something more hands-on than the current discussion on medical ethics.  It’s not that he doesn’t think the Hippocratic and Veterinarian’s Oaths are ace and all, it’s just that he’s itching to get back in surgery again—itching to stitch a wound, mend a fracture, or do _anything_ productive.  He’s had three-and-a-half years of books and theories and just a taste of real-world application.  He’s ready for more.

Besides, it’s not like Harry would ever dream about committing an ethics violation.  He’d never even consider bending any rules in his profession.  It’s against his DNA.  Professor Ferguson evidently has far less faith in Harry (and his classmates) because the grey and ginger-bearded professor with round spectacles insists on prattling on about every violation on the books.

And then some.

“You’re all familiar with the notorious Burke and Hare, of course?” Professor Ferguson poses to the lecture hall.  Most students nod but a few are scratching their heads, and Harry wants to yell at them to just join the chorus of nods.  Harry’s always been a little squeamish about this sort of thing, and Burk and Hare, Edinburgh’s “Gruesome Twosome,” is far from his favourite discussion topic.

“Weren’t they, like, body snatchers?” a girl up front throws out.  There’s an incredulousness to her question and Harry can’t blame her.  He isn’t sure why their professor is wasting their time talking about Edinburgh’s sordid past.

“Of sorts,” the old professor answers with a smile that frankly creeps Harry out.  It’s as if the guy enjoys this.

“Burke and Hare were two of Scotland’s most notorious criminals in the early nineteenth century,” Professor Ferguson proceeds, and Harry knows they are going to get the full morbid tale whether he likes it or not.  “As you are all well aware, the Edinburgh Medical Schools have always been at the forefront of breakthroughs in medicine; however, some of these advances were tinged with dubious if not downright disturbing morality.”

The professor stops his narrative and scans the hall, his eyes falling on Harry for some unlucky reason.  “Styles, isn’t it?” he inquires, and Harry glumly affirms.  “Can you tell me what unethical practice occurred during this time and how the medical profession encouraged it?”

Harry swallows but sits up a little.  “Um, I believe that grave robbers were selling cadavers to doctors at the medical School no questions asked.”

“That is correct, Styles,” Professor Ferguson confirms.  “Because there were less hangings than in previous decades, the demand for more subjects for the growing science of anatomy soon began to outweigh the supply.  But this is where Burk and Hare were different than the average body snatcher,” he claims, pausing for dramatic effect.  “They didn’t raid churchyards; on the contrary, they preyed on the old and the misfortunate of Edinburgh’s seedier areas back then:  West Port, the Grassmarket....”

Harry shivers.  He doesn’t like to think about this sort of thing happening at all but especially not in his backyard.

The professor surveys his audience and seems pleased with the way they’re all hanging on his every word.  “Burke and Hare strangled their victims before bringing the lifeless corpses to the medical school where they were paid between eight and fourteen pounds for their services.”

A boy in the second row raises his hand.  “But isn’t that more of an ethics violation by the murderers and grave robbers, sir?  The doctors didn’t do anything wrong, did they?”

“That, dear Fleming, is the crux of why I am recounting this history,” the learned man reveals, his tone becoming gravely serious all of a sudden.  “Dr. Knox, the doctor who accepted the cadavers from Burke and Hare, even went so far as to make the faces of the corpses unrecognisable.  Even so, medical students began recognising a few of the victims anyway.  Still, at least seventeen murders were carried out before the grim partnership terminated.”

You could hear the proverbial pin drop in the lecture hall after Professor Ferguson finishes.  He calmly returns to the lectern, his gaze sweeping over each and every one of the students in an almost accusatory fashion.  “I know that this is an extreme example in some ways; however, I hope that you glean twofold from it.” He rolls up his sleeves and grips the lectern before him.  Harry feels goose pimples forming as he waits for his teacher to continue.

“First, turning a blind eye on wrongdoing makes you just as complicit as the wrongdoers themselves; and second, never forget your humanity.  Once you lose that, you lose everything.”

The professor checks the wall clock, then snaps his portfolio closed.  “Right!  I think that’s enough for today,” he declares lightly before parroting off a reading assignment.  “Oh, and be sure to enjoy the weekend, lads and lasses.  ‘Til next week!””

Frankly, Harry thinks that’s the last thing he’ll be able to do—thanks to Professor Ferguson.

 

**\+ + +**

 

He’s in the Old College, running an errand in his role as club secretary when he literally trips over his feet.  Papers fly in all directions as he nearly face-plants.  A moment later, though, he realises his dignity’s hurt more than anything else.  He crawls about, gathering up timetabling and budget requests willy-nilly for now.  It’ll take a while to put everything back in order, but he’ll wait until he gets to the Student Information Point to worry about that.

He blames his clumsiness this time on his lack of focus.  He wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t looking where he was going, simple as that.  He’s always daydreaming about something and lately, his mind’s been more than preoccupied with hazel eyes and lashes that stretch on for days.  As he gets up and dusts off the knees of his trousers, his eyes catch a glimpse of the boy he was daydreaming about—or a photograph of him at any rate.

Except on closer inspection it isn’t Zayn.  He laughs at his foolishness because it’s an old graduation picture, taken over a hundred years ago.  The black and white photo has a soft, romantic quality, slightly discoloured with age, but nonetheless impressive in its scale for the time.  He checks the caption, just to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him:  “Class of 1914.”

He laughs at how silly he was, thinking this boy could be Zayn.  Now that he looks at it, there are distinct differences.  The face of the man pictured is more boyish and slightly fuller.  His hair is parted in a way Zayn would _never_ style it.  Still, Harry can’t help gawking at the doppelganger, at the one in the third row, second from the left.  Harry eyes drag down to the names listed underneath.  He finds the third line and reads:

_James T. MacLeod, Zain J. Malik, Trevor S. Meadows…._

Harry stops.  Reads it again.  _Zain Malik_.  He can’t believe the coincidence that this random boy from a random photograph is named Zain.  Harry’s almost ashamed, but he doesn’t know Zayn’s surname.  It well might be Malik for all he knows.  Perhaps, this Zain Malik is a distant relative of Zayn’s—maybe even a great-great-great-grandfather or something like that.  He’ll have to remember to ask Zayn when he sees him tonight—not that he’s likely to get any kind of answer from the closed off, attractive art student.

Amazingly, Zayn agreed to come to another meeting tonight, and honestly, Harry’s just looking forward to be able to spend more time with him.

He wonders if Zayn will ever let him in fully.  Harry knows he probably shouldn’t ask for what he can’t give himself, but Harry’s the type who gives _most_ of himself at least.  Zayn, on the other hand, gets suspicious when someone asks him the time.

He wouldn’t think Zayn was even interested in being friends at all if it weren’t for the fact that he always responds positively to Harry’s texts within minutes of when he sends them.  There are always cheeky emojis and a lightness that juxtaposes with all his sharp edges.  He’s a walking contradiction, especially in person, pulling Harry in with his eyes and pushing him away with his words.

Sometimes, Harry has no idea what to think about any of it.

And so he doesn’t.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_'Cause I'm craving, craving, craving something I can feel_  
_Where do I go? What do I need?_  
 _Is it ecstasy or is it fear?_

-“Craving,” James Bay

 

**(Zayn)**

 

Another Thursday.  Another IC meeting Zayn shouldn’t have agreed to attend.

To be fair, it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.  After all, Harry had invited him to come, and apparently, Zayn’s spine turns to jelly whenever Harry Styles asks him to do _anything._

He’s going to have to do something about that.  Eventually.

He fiddles with his clunky rings in the meantime, listens to the pattering of rain on the cathedral-shaped windows.  His eyes drift to the clock in front of him, and he counts the seconds until the minute hand makes an almost imperceptible movement.  For some reason, time seems to be going impossibly slow today.  He reasons it’s because there are less people present (most likely due to the shit weather), and he has grown tired of people-watching anyone but Harry.  Unfortunately, he can’t just stare at the boy next to him the whole time so he’s stuck watching the clock instead:

_19:55…19:56…19:57._

He challenges himself not to look up at the clock until at least three minutes pass this time.  He crosses his legs, but his top leg bounces like he’s about to go in for an interview so he quickly uncrosses them.  He then replays the directions for the assignment he received in class today and figures how long he can afford to procrastinate.  He bends down to get his coffee from the floor, cradling it in his hands.  He isn’t really thirsty (not for coffee anyway), but it keeps his hands warm and occupied, and you can’t beat that.  He glances up at the clock again:

 _19:59._ Only two minutes gone. _Fuck._

He doesn’t have time to dwell on his losses though because someone’s speaking to him.  To his dread, he realises it’s James, and the jovial moderator is asking Zayn if he has anything to share.  Harry gives him that same heartening smile, and it does something to Zayn this time.  He can’t suppress the overwhelming urge to please this kid.

“Yeah, I’m Zayn.”  (Is that what he’s supposed to say?  Why hasn’t he been paying attention to the format all this time?)  “And I’m not always good at, er, eating.” 

Great, now he sounds like a fucking caveman.  Apparently, he’s not so good at talking either.

He really wishes he could take the statement back because it sounds so fucking lame, and there are people with _actual_ issues here.  People who are depressed; people who can’t come up with the rising tuition fees; people who aren’t ungrateful immortals like him.  He slumps down in his seat, doesn’t even bother to listen to the responses, but then he feels a soft touch on his knee.  There’s a gentle squeeze before the hand’s withdrawn, and Zayn suddenly feels over the fucking moon.

James, God bless him, can tell Zayn’s not ready to expound on his statement so he takes up the mantle, encouraging others to talk about issues they have related to food and how they’ve dealt with them.

There’s this girl who’s going on about trying to control cravings—in her case it’s sweets but Zayn pays attention anyway.  James explains how food cravings are associated with the memory centres of the brain—even more so than the reward centre.  It’s the memory of the reward that causes the craving supposedly.

Zayn’s trying to figure out how (and if) he can utilise this newfound knowledge, but psychoanalysing himself is difficult when Harry’s sitting so close, smelling like salted caramel, and orange blossoms, and sugar and spice, and every-fucking-thing nice.

_Bloody hell._

After the meeting, Liam, Harry, and he leave for Molly Bloom’s, the Irish pub where Niall works.  It’s a regular thing now, a pattern that Zayn’s now a part of.  He thinks he likes it that way.

Unlike at the meeting, the time at the bar flies by as quickly as the lager is poured.  A couple of hours before closing, Niall’s girlfriend shows up.  (Niall claims Allison isn’t actually his girlfriend even though Harry says they’ve been dating exclusively for nearly a year now.)  She’s sweet, almost reserved, and a good foil to Niall’s loudness.  Zayn likes her. 

Harry seems especially introspective tonight, and Zayn’s unsure why.  He isn’t exactly drunk, but he’s three-quarters of the way there. 

Liam makes his excuses, says he ought to get back home because he’s got to get to work earlier than usual in the morning.  He looks directly at Harry when he adds how stressful it’s been lately at the rescue centre.  Harry offers to pitch in on Saturday morning, and Liam doesn’t hesitate to accept.

After Liam leaves, it’s just Harry and him.  (Niall’s been on the other side of the bar dealing with an after-event rush for the past twenty minutes.)  Suddenly, Zayn’s forgotten how to speak so he just nurses his drink instead.  Harry does the same.  The owner, an Irish woman in her mid-forties with a rosy complexion, comes over to check if they need anything.

“Two shots of tequila, please,” Harry orders, “one each for my friend and me.”  He hiccups loudly and Zayn grits his teeth.  “Best you got as long as it’s under,”—he checks his billfold—“twenty quid.”

Zayn tries to butt in and tell Harry that he doesn’t want a shot (and Harry doesn’t need one either), but the other boy isn’t listening.

“Oh, and Sharon…have you met Zayn yet?  We’re just mates, by the way.”  He slaps Zayn on the back.  “Good mates, him and me.”

“That’s lovely, Harry.”  The owner hides a smile as she goes to pour the shots. 

Zayn waits until she’s out of earshot.  “Are you trying to get completely smashed?” he hisses.  “Because if you are, that’s—” 

“—None of your business?” Harry slurs, knocking back the shot that’s just been placed in front of him.  He coughs violently, and Zayn can’t help but raise an eyebrow. 

“Not used to the hard stuff, eh?”

Harry doesn’t answer, just takes the other shot and downs it, coughing only slightly this time.  He gets up from the stool, mumbling something before tottering off towards the loo.  Zayn goes to get up as well, grabs Harry’s arm to steady him, but Harry pushes him away.

“Please don’t,” viridescent eyes plead.  Zayn sits back down and watches as Harry teeters away on unsteady feet.  He feels hurt, but he doesn’t really have the right to complain.  Drunk Harry may be a bit of an arse, but he’s still less of an arse than sober Zayn.

“Where’s Harry?”

Zayn blinks up from staking out the door of the loo to see Niall back again.  “The gent’s.  He’s proper pissed so I wouldn’t give him another if I were you.  Just saying.”

“ _Harry?_ ” Niall scoffs.  “Harry doesn’t get pissed.”

“Yes, he does actually,” Zayn insists, glancing in the direction of the loo again.  “I know what pissed looks like, and he is most definitely pissed.”

Niall seems to consider his words.  “Well now, are we talking buzzed, banjo’d, blootered, or shit-faced?”

Zayn’s still running over the options in his head when Harry appears out of nowhere.

“’Lo Nialler,” Harry giggles before collapsing where he’s stood.  He pops up again a second later though, his face looking almost as green as his eyes as he grips onto the bar and somehow makes it back onto the stool, a little (or a lot) worse for wear.

“Shit-faced,” Niall states matter-of-factly, answering his own question.  Zayn doesn’t argue as Harry rests his cheek on the bar and groans miserably.

Niall sighs loudly.  “Fuck me, this kid can hardly walk when he’s sober.  There go my plans for the night.”  He wipes down part of the bar top, being careful to avoid his flatmate’s short curls.  “But what I want to know is how the hell do you get shit-faced on cider?”

Zayn reaches out and closes Harry’s eyelids the rest of the way.  He puts on his best cockney accent as he solemnly observes, “think it was the tequila what done him in.” 

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Niall snorts.  “Tequila?  Jaysus.  He’s a lightweight…unless you’re trying to carry him.  Then, he’s a heavy fucker.  He only got shit-faced on me once, but it had to be about a year ago now,” Niall tells Zayn, eying Harry with pity as the boy with his cheek smashed against the bar breathes heavily.  Zayn wonders if he’ll start snoring soon.  “He’d just broken up with this jackeen—”

“Johnny Walker dude?”

“Nah, this one was the Real McCoy,” Niall relates.  “He was a piece of fucking work, let me tell ya.  Anyway, they’d just gotten serious when I catch Fuckface chatting up this Sally right in front of me when Harry wasn’t there.  So could I help it if my hand slipped when I gave him his beer?  Could I help it if he got all scundered ‘cuz it looked like he wee’d himself?”  Niall snickers, lowering his voice a little as he goes on.  “So Sharon—the owner, yeah—gave me a right talking to, but it was worth it,” he winks.  “And this one,” he continues, hitching his thumb towards Harry, “came in the next day and tried to drown his sorrows in the bottle as it were.  I almost threw my back out trying to get him into a taxi.  It was murder, let me tell you.”

“Well,” Zayn observes half-heartedly, “he sure knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t he?”

Niall studies him curiously, and Zayn feels as if he’s being scrutinised like a laboratory rat.  “Ahh…he sure does.”

Harry emits an extended groan, and Zayn wonders if it’s a reaction to Niall’s story.  He hopes not.

“Ah well,” Niall sighs resignedly, “guess I’ll tell Allison I can’t come over tonight.”

Zayn swallows.  He knows he shouldn’t volunteer but somehow the offer stumbles from his lips anyway.  “I could, er, make sure he gets home alright.”

Niall regards him, a funny look in his blue eyes.  “Guess that would be alright,” he concedes before his expression turns stern.  “Listen, I know you don’t swing that way, but I’m just gonna say it because it’ll make me feel better.”  He takes a deep breath.  “Don’t fuck with his feelings.  Don’t take advantage of him because you’re too horned up or pissed to care that he’s a bloke or whatever.  I really like you, Zayn, but I’ll batter ya if you hurt him—got it?”

Zayn’s startled by Niall’s intensity, but he gets it, and he knows the Irishman’s heart is in the right place.  Besides, Zayn can’t blame Niall for looking out for his best mate.  After all, anyone who’d be naïve enough to pick up a random dude passed out on his doorstep before letting said dude spend the night probably wants looking after.  “Yeah, of course, mate.  I’ll get Harry home safe and sound, no worries.”

Niall stares at him for a moment longer but then nods his head.  “Good.  Now, you need help getting him into a taxi?”

Zayn declines and soon after is helping Harry into one of the waiting cabs lined up along the street.  He tries to make it look like he’s putting in work even though he really isn’t.  It only becomes a challenge when Harry trips over his feet and Zayn’s got to grab the larger boy around the waist to prevent him from taking a nosedive into the pavement. 

By the end of the cab ride, Harry seems a little less pissed and a lot more pensive.  They come to the familiar Victorian brownstone, and Zayn knows he shouldn’t go up.  He’s going to follow Niall’s advice.  He’s going to follow his own fucking advice.  He’s going to show some self-restraint.  He isn’t going to do anything foolish, anything he’d regret, anything that would put him in a compromising situation.

So he helps Harry out of the cab and up the steps to the first floor.  Helps him unlock the door and lock it behind him.  Helps him untie his shoelaces and pull his shirt off.  Helps him into bed—

“Stay?” Harry implores, desperately fisting his shirtfront.  Zayn’s about to argue, but Harry’s lip is quivering now.  “Please.  I won’t ask anything again from you.  Just please stay tonight.  You don’t have to…you know.  I just…I just don’t want to be alone.”

“What is it?” Zayn asks softly, petting his hair.  “Something troubling you?”

“Nothing I can change,” Harry mumbles unhappily, eyes like a tropical storm.  “Just please stay.”

And despite Niall’s warning ringing in his ears, this time Zayn can’t say no.  He crawls into bed with him, making sure not to get too close.  Harry closes the distance anyway.  They’re not touching, not exactly spooning, but Zayn can feel Harry’s nearness all the same.

And he’s warm.  So very warm.

 

**\+ + +**

 

 _There are noises everywhere:  screaming, shouting, blaring, booming, grating, guttering noises that make his skin crawl.  He can only see a few feet in front of him—not that he really wants to view the carnage all around, it’s just that claustrophobia is creeping in.  What he_ can _see through fogged-up lenses appears a sickly yellowish-green.  It’s making it all the more difficult to search but he keeps on.  He can’t give up._

_Finally, his eyes adjust, and he sees the figure he’s been searching for.  He thinks someone’s calling out to him from behind, but he doesn’t have time to stop.  But then, there’s an even louder noise, one that rips through his ear drums and causes him to fall to his knees.  The ground shakes beneath him, and when he dares to look up, he wishes he hadn’t, wishes he could expunge the horrific sight from his vision._

_Fuck, he wishes he could just breathe._

**\+ + +**

 

The first thing Zayn is aware of is a weight pressing down on his chest. 

He panics even before he opens his eyes, even before he’s confronted with two inhuman eyes staring at him.  He bolts up, hand flailing out for balance.  Something goes flying, and he realises it’s his mobile as it crashes against the opposite wall.  Then, there’s an indignant whimper as paws land on his chest again and soft hazel eyes look down at him accusingly.

_George._

“Ah, it’s just you, little buddy,” Zayn murmurs, falling back on the bed and trying to stop himself from shaking because he knows where he is now.  It’s all coming back to him now, how Harry asked him to stay last night, how he shouldn’t have.  George is watching him closely, and Zayn still can’t tell why.  He can’t decipher if it’s a _‘I don’t trust you’_ look, or a _‘I know you’re a vampire’_ one, or even a _‘don’t fuck with my best mate’_ glare like the one Niall gave him last night.

But then George curls up on his chest contentedly and Zayn understands.  It was a _‘why the fuck are you disturbing my slumber?’_ look.  Absently, he strokes the dog’s short coat, and it nuzzles closer against him. 

Zayn glances over at the boy next to him to find that Harry’s looking at the two of them with a fondness that scares Zayn a little.

Or a lot actually.

Zayn sits up then, gingerly setting George down on the bed between them.  His mouth is dry, and he feels like shit, having slept in everything but his shoes last night.  He’s still wearing his rings and watch for crying out loud.

“I’ve—”

“Gotta go,” Harry finishes for him, voice gruff with sleep but otherwise emotionless.  “I know.”

Zayn nods stupidly, sits on the edge of the bed to tie the laces of his boots.  It’s like he can’t move fast enough now; the laces keep slipping through his fingers, and he feels he’s being spied on by Harry and his dog.

“Am I going to see you again?”  There’s a world of something in Harry’s tone, and it might break Zayn just a little if it weren’t for the fact he’s unbreakable.

“Of course.”

Harry brightens a bit at that.  “So…we good then?”

Zayn stands up and forces a smile.  “Why wouldn’t we be?”  He gives George a goodbye pat before telling Harry he’ll text him later.  Harry seems content with the response, and he doesn’t ask any questions.  Maybe that’s what Zayn likes best about this boy—he hardly ever asks questions.

Zayn removes his shades from the pocket of his leather jacket as soon as he hits the street.  He hurries along because the sun is blinding today, and it’s sapping up his energy like cheap acrylic on canvas.

He worries as he walks along because that’s what Zayn does.  He’s got a whole fucking slew of worries to keep him company today—not least of which is trying to keep the fact that he’s a blood-thirsty immortal under wraps (a.k.a, the story of his life).  What’s even worse, perhaps, is that this human is getting under his skin.

And that’s definitely not a good thing because Zayn doesn’t fuck with humans.  Or, to be more exact, Zayn _didn’t_ fuck with humans…until now.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn’s just gone glossy-eyed when Harry rings him up next.  It’s Saturday, and he’s been staring at the original designs for his piece for hours, long enough to conclude that they’re complete rubbish.  The idea of chucking them and starting all over again, however, makes him want to dive off the nearest cliff (not that it would do much good probably).

Needless to say, the phone call is a welcome distraction.

Hullo…Zayn?” a familiar Cheshire accent inquires and if the corners of his mouth immediately turn up, well, Zayn can’t help that.  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not doing a bloody thing actually.”  

“Good,” Harry says breathlessly, “because the lads and I…we’ve got something to celebrate and we were hoping you’d want to join.”

“Sure,” Zayn replies easily. 

He doesn’t have time to ask more because Harry’s ploughing on.  “Alright, I’ll text you the details when we get everything all sorted.  Cheers for now.”

Zayn says his own goodbye, hangs up, and instantly realises he shouldn’t be this happy. 

He showers again, and as he’s lathering his favourite soap under his arms, he catches himself _whistling_.  He stops abruptly because Zayn doesn’t _do_ that.  Sure, he sings in the shower (doesn’t everyone?), but he doesn’t _whistle_ , for fuck’s sake.

He’s just glad no one could hear him because _bloody hell._

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn spies Harry and Liam in the short queue leading into the club.  Zayn jogs up to them, sliding in line and avoiding the annoyed glare from the dude behind them.  Harry immediately wraps Zayn in a hug as if it’s been much longer than a day since they last saw each other.  Then, Harry catches himself and awkwardly steps back (but not before Liam notices).

Zayn clears his throat.  “So what’s this good news?”

“Niall’s landed the dream gig,” Harry gushes, pride clearly bursting from every seam, “carrying the bag on the sacred grounds.”

Zayn stares blankly at him for a moment, waiting for Harry to expound on whatever the fuck he just said.  He doesn’t.  “Well,” he begins cautiously, “that’s really something.”

Liam snorts.  “Haz, he’s got no clue what you’re going on about.  What he’s _trying_ to say,” Liam interprets for Zayn, “is that Niall was hired as a caddy at St. Andrews Links.”

“Oh!” Zayn exclaims, finally getting it.  “Oh, well, that _is_ something to celebrate then.  Cheers for the translation, Liam.”

“No problem,” Liam returns, “I’ve picked up a whole new vocabulary being mates with these two knuckleheads.”  Zayn’s confused at first until he sees Niall join them.  There’s another rude glare from the chav behind them, but this time it’s accompanied by a whispered comment to one of his mates.  Zayn shouldn’t have heard it.  He wouldn’t have if he had normal hearing so he does his best to disregard it.  He’s learnt to control himself over the years.  Still, this asshole’s getting on his nerves.

“Seriously,” Liam says as Zayn tries to forget what he just overheard, “I don’t see how this pair can chunter on about golf as much as they do.”  He shakes his head.  “You like golf, Zayn?”

“Um…it’s alright?” Zayn replies, glancing at Harry.  “I mean, I’m not really much into sport, and I can’t play—”

“Golf?” Niall supplies.  “That’s alright.  Harry can’t play either,” he cracks, winking mischievously at his flatmate. 

Their conversation’s put on pause momentarily when they reach the front.  A few minutes later, they’re all inside when Zayn feels someone bump into him roughly.  It’s the dickhead from before, and Zayn would give anything to smash his face in right then and there, but he’s not going to let this asshole ruin his night. 

“Hey Zayn, did I ever tell you about how Harry and me met on the links?” Niall asks, and it’s just the diversion Zayn needs.

Harry looks positively affronted though.  “You do that, Nialler, and I’ll tell Zayn about the time you caddied for a charity tournament and fell on your arse while you were being interviewed… _on the telly_.”

Zayn hoots and so does Liam even though he’s sure to have heard the story before.

“Jaysus, that was like my first time on the bag!” Niall protests.  “And don’t make me tell them about the last time we played and you used a 3 wood to hit a line-drive into a fecking duck, ya clack-handed duffer.  I don’t claim to be an animal lover, but at least I don’t go around beaming ducks, do I now?”

“It was a pink-footed goose!” Harry says exasperatedly, “and he was fine; I checked.”  Harry glances apologetically at the head of the animal rescue centre then.  “Look, Liam, it was an accident—”

“You two, I swear,” Liam interrupts, shaking his head.  “Haz, why don’t you come help me get the pints?  Zayn, I think the band’s going to start soon so you can grab a booth while Niall updates you on the story of how these two idiots met—one which literally every other person in Edinburgh has heard.” 

Harry rolls his eyes but follows his friend anyway, throwing Zayn a wink before he departs.

“So, I’m on the Old Course,” Niall begins, gesticulating broadly with his hands.  It reminds Zayn of the stories Louis would tell him about something that happened on the pitch.  Zayn would only half listen to those as a rule, but now he feels something akin to nostalgia for them, for the ‘good old days,’ perhaps.  “So I just hit this fecking beauty of an approach with a sand wedge that lands on the front of the green, and I’m reading the putt, yeah?  Now, I gotta sink this birdie because it’ll put me par for the front nine, and I’d be one over if I had to settle for an up-and-down.”

Zayn’s head is swimming.  He nods, forces a smile, but really wishes Liam was around to translate again.  Even so, he enjoys how animated Niall gets as he’s giving him the play-by-play.

“So I’ve finally figured it’s left-to-right with a slight break at the end, yeah?” Niall continues, using his hand to demonstrate what Zayn guesses is the slope.  “I’m aiming for the high side when, out of nowhere, this fecking ball drops from the sky, and you’ll never guess whose it was….”

 

**\+ + +**

 

The band isn’t bad, Zayn has to admit, even if it’s not really his scene. 

Niall’s a good egg and although Zayn’s just met him, he can’t help but feel happy for him that he’s landed his dream job.  Niall will still be working a couple of shifts at Molly Bloom’s once his caddying career begins, but it still leaves an opening at the pub—one that Sharon’s eager to fill right away.  The Irishman offers to put in a good word for Zayn. 

Zayn’s about to decline because he really doesn’t need the money, but then he realises that it might be good if he keeps busy.  The hours suit him, and he’s got some bartending experience from years ago (not that he can really put that on his CV, but he can always come up with something.  He’s become a pro at that sort of thing purely out of necessity.)  “Yeah, that would be sick actually.  Cheers, mate.”

“Oi—almost forgot to ask your last name!” Niall laughs.  “I’d look a proper eejit if I recommend ya without even knowing your bloody surname, eh?”

“Brannon,” Zayn replies easily, and Harry starts slightly.

Zayn can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the green-eyed lad across from him.  “Something the matter?”

“No, I just…was thinking it might be something else.  Never mind…it’s stupid.”

There’s something unsettling about Harry’s comment.  Zayn wants to press him further, but then Niall’s hugging him and shouting in his ear (as if Zayn’s hypersensitive hearing wasn’t already being pushed to the limit in this place).

“YOU’RE IRISH!” Niall shrieks delightedly, almost pissing himself.  “Get that, Payno—Zayn’s fecking Oirish!”

Liam smiles indulgently at Niall before turning to Zayn.  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a job, Zayn.”  Zayn offers up a quick half-smile before returning to the task of trying to read Harry’s thoughts.  Soon though, Harry’s back to his usual upbeat self so he stops stressing about it. 

In fact, Harry’s in a particularly garrulous mood tonight—the complete opposite of Thursday.  The younger boy tells long, quirky anecdotes about his family and school, often forgetting the punchline because Liam or Niall have interrupted him a dozen times each.  Zayn’s transfixed by everything he says even if he knows that half of it is rubbish.  Harry’s clearly playing to the crowd, stretching out the stories to get a reaction from his best mates.

Zayn doesn’t mind.  He could listen to Harry talk for hours, listen to the lilting rhythm of that Cheshire accent, marvel at how Harry’s baritone is as warm and honeyed as the boy himself. 

If Harry notices the way he affects Zayn, he doesn’t let on.  Zayn’s content for now to be a silent observer mostly, watching the way the three old friends interact.  He laughs at their jokes, revels in their joys, and fits in his own brand of sarcastic wit where appropriate.  He isn’t greedy though; he just appreciates being here, belonging somewhere again…even if it’s only temporary.

It’s a nice feeling— _belonging_.

The band is just gearing up for their second set when Zayn’s excuses himself.  Harry smiles dopily at him, asks him to hurry back because his favourite song is coming up, and he wants Zayn to hear it.

He wants _Zayn_ to hear it. 

Zayn speeds towards the toilets.  When he pushes open the door, he’s convinced he must have shit luck because the dickhead from earlier is at the sink.  And of course, the guy mutters the slur again as he turns off the tap. 

Zayn should be used to it over the years.  He should be accustomed to the overt racism, the chants of _“Paki, go home”_ even if his home is fucking Bradford.  They’re just ignorant assholes, and he’s not going to give a single one of them the time of day.

So he stands there, simmering with just barely contained rage, hands balled into tight fists at his side.  The guy turns his back to him to reach for a paper towel, smirking as he balls it up and pitches it into the bin.  He purposely bumps into Zayn (again) before stopping to feign an apology.

“Sorry, mate,” the taller man sneers, breath smelling like cheap beer as he tilts his head down.  “And say ‘hi’ to your little fag for me, yeah?  He must’ve really been desperate to be with a dirty—”

“Don’t,” Zayn seethes, fists squeezing so tight at his sides, he feels his nails digging into the flesh of his palms.  “Don’t fucking say another word or you’ll regret it, fuckhead.” 

The room somehow becomes even tenser than it was a second ago.  It’s gone deathly quiet now, all except the low hum of the band playing onstage; it’s sounds eerie, like it’s being piped in from underwater.  Perhaps that’s what distracts him from what comes next because in theory, Zayn should have seen it coming.  He _is_ a vampire after all.  Then again, nobody’s perfect…except maybe Harry.

The guy’s head-butts him…hard.  Zayn feels disoriented for a moment as he staggers backwards, catching himself on a stall door.

“Did you like the Glasgow kiss, big man?” he jeers, rolling up his sleeves to show his massive biceps as he closes the distance between them.  “Well there’s more where that came from.”

In a flash, Zayn pounces, throwing a punch straight to the man’s obnoxious mug.  He looks stunned as he stumbles back towards the wall and slides downwards.  Blood gushes out of his nose like a low-budget horror flick, covering his white shirtfront in seconds.  Zayn’s on him anyway, pummelling him with carefully placed blows to the face and chest.  Zayn’s shaking with a fury he hasn’t felt in a long time, and he sees red.  Literally.

He also sees terror in the man’s eyes—one, half-closed—and notices how the guy’s whimpering.  The vampire forces himself to pull back, and his victim puts his palms up in surrender.  Zayn hasn’t been giving everything he’s got (not even close), but the guy’s bloodied up all the same, most of it emanating from the nosebleed.  Shaking, Zayn draws back.  It takes him a moment to collect himself because his body’s reacting to it, reacting to the steady flow of blood and _fuck_ , maybe he should have fed earlier.

The blood is tempting, but Zayn’s not gonna drink from him.  He wouldn’t stoop that low, wouldn’t want any of this guy’s blood to taint him. 

He leaves the man there and goes over to the sink to wash his bloodied hands.  He does so as quickly as he can, not wanting anyone to walk in on the scene.  The basin is pink after he’s done, and he lets the water run for a bit to wash away the sin, yet another entry on the left side of Zayn’s ledger.

The guy is cowering in the corner when Zayn hovers over him, fangs out for full effect:  “Listen, if I ever see you cross my path again—or any of my mates’ paths—I won’t hesitate to kill you.  Got it?”

Dickhead nods furiously.  Zayn’s threat is really more for himself though.  He’s about to compel the dude anyway, and Zayn’s not capable of anything less than bulldozing his memory of tonight.  The cowering asshole probably won’t even remember coming to the club after Zayn’s done with him.

Zayn leaves without saying goodbye to Harry or anyone else.  He doesn’t want them to be suspicious of the stains on his clothing.  He doesn’t want to drag anyone else into the mess he’s just created. 

But honestly, he’d be lying if he said he was sorry.

 

 

                                                                                                                               


	7. Chapter 7

 

 _Questions of science_  
_Science and progress_  
 _Do not speak as loud as my heart_

-“The Scientist,” Coldplay

**(Harry)**

 

“Where’s Zayn?”

Niall is the one who finally asks it, but it’s most likely been the question on all three of their minds.  Zayn had gone off to find the loo over fifteen minutes ago, and he still wasn’t back yet.  The band, Plastic Crush, is playing Harry’s favourite song now, but he can’t enjoy it.  He’s too concerned about Zayn, and the loud, pulsing beat is just grating on his nerves. 

“I’ve got to wee anyway—I’ll go check to see if I can spot him,” Liam announces, sliding out of the red leather booth. 

“Oi, make sure he didn’t fall in the jacks,” Niall cracks before taking a swig of his Guinness.  “But I swear to holy heaven, if that pretty boy ditched us for some little feek, I’m gonna give him a clatter in the jaw.”

Niall’s words give Harry pause.  Of course Zayn might have found a girl he fancied.  Of course they may be snogging out back.  It’s bound to happen at some point, and Harry might as well get used to the idea.

But that doesn’t mean he wants to witness it first-hand either.

Liam’s gone for a full two songs, and Harry’s starting to get antsy.  He texts Zayn, but the other boy still doesn’t reply.  He’s about to text Liam when the brown-eyed boy suddenly reappears, looking much paler and holding a brand new drink in his hand. 

“Did you find him?” Harry grills.

Liam appears stunned as he slowly shakes his head from side-to-side.  “No.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Niall presses.  “What’s happened?”

Liam swallows.  “They were taking away some bloke in a stretcher.  I got there before they were able to block off everything completely.  Someone said they’d just found the guy about ten minutes before.  He was, uh, covered in blood.  It was pretty awful, and I’m used to seeing awful, but this…this was something else.”

“Must’ve been a fight or something,” Harry says, his brain moving at one hundred miles-per-hour.  There’s an uneasy tension in the air, almost palpable.  Harry meets Niall’s gaze, and it’s clear they’re both thinking the same thing.

Liam picks up on it, too.  “No, Zayn couldn’t have been involved.  This guy was _massive_.  Zayn wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.”

Harry tries to imagine what could have happened if Zayn stumbled in on something he shouldn’t have—a drug deal gone wrong maybe.  Or maybe the man they found _did_ pick a fight with Zayn.  Maybe Zayn was hurt.  Maybe he needed help.

Harry stands abruptly, nearly knocking over a glass in the process.  He wipes his clammy hands on the front of his jeans and tries not to look as worried as he feels.  “I need to…I mean…I’ve got to—”

Niall waves his hand.  “Yeah, it’s alright…go find him.  Bressie and Allison should be arriving soon so don’t feel bad about skiving off on my special day after Zayn’s apparently shlunked.  I can tell you’re going to be useless until you find your stray anyway.”

“You want some help?” Liam offers considerately while side-eying Niall.

Harry shakes his head.  “Nah, I’m sure he just wasn’t feeling well.  Probably caught a cab home…or something.”  Harry doesn’t bother to tell them that he doesn’t have a clue where Zayn lives, that he doesn’t know even the most basic of personal details about his supposed friend, but luckily they don’t question him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Liam says but he looks less than convinced.  “Come back and join us if you find him soon, okay?” 

Niall echoes the sentiment and gives him a small hug.  As he draws Harry in, Niall speaks into his ear so that only Harry can hear:  “Text me, yeah?”

Before he leaves, Harry makes a quick round of the interior of the club.  He does the same to the exterior.  There’s no sign of the beautiful raven-haired boy anywhere though.  He asks around and discovers that only one person was carried away in the ambulance.  He breathes a sigh of relief at that.

Finally, he decides to go back to his flat.  He’s got no choice but to wait for Zayn to text him back when Zayn’s no longer busy with whatever—or _who_ ever—he’s busy with.  The thought makes him physically ill.

But no one needs to know that.  Especially not Niall or Liam.

Or Zayn.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry’s feeling somewhat dejected as he alights from the taxi.  He checks his phone for messages as soon as he’s slammed the door behind him.  His nose is buried in the screen so he doesn’t see the figure waiting on his doorstep until he’s almost upon the dark, slouching form. 

His breath hitches in his throat.  “Zayn.”

The boy he’s been searching for half the night looks up at him expressionless.  He’s perched in almost exactly the same spot as he was on that fateful day just weeks ago.  He’s not out cold this time, but that’s about the only positive thing Harry can conjure out of the comparison.  Zayn looks a right mess—his hair all mussed, clothes rumpled, and eyes fixed in a dead stare at everything and nothing.  He seems to be in a trance, barely breathing or blinking, as Harry creeps closer.

Harry’s eyes gradually adjust to the light of the streetlamp, and he observes Zayn’s black t-shirt is torn.  There are a few dark stains on his clothing, and he’s got a large contusion on the left side of his forehead that’s beginning to turn an angry red in colour.  His knuckles are also bruised badly, but that’s the extent of Zayn’s visible injuries.  He doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere or to have broken anything at first glance.

Harry’s puzzled now, trying to reconcile Liam’s descriptions of the victim’s size and injuries with what he sees before him.  Zayn appears to have been in a minor scuffle, but that’s about it.  It was surely a coincidence that he left the club at approximately the same time the crime was discovered.  Pure coincidence and nothing more.

“You’re okay,” Harry breathes, edging closer.  He wants to touch Zayn, wants to make sure he’s real, but he doesn’t dare.  The boy shies away from contact anyway, but Zayn looks especially fragile now, almost as if he might shatter at the slightest touch.  It reminds Harry of the first time he met George at the animal shelter, how skittish the little pup was.  It took a long time for George to warm up to him, let alone for the beagle to trust him.  But Harry didn’t give up. 

He never gives up when it matters.

“You left,” Harry says slowly, but there’s no anger or judgment behind his words.  He’s just stating a fact.  “You just left without a word; I didn’t know where you went.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles, head dropping as if he’s ashamed.  “Sorry…sorry for everything, Harry.” 

Zayn stands up then and starts towards the street.  Harry’s heart is inexplicably pounding in his chest as he grabs onto Zayn’s sleeve.  “Want to come up?”

“Shouldn’t.  Don’t know why I’m even here honestly,” Zayn admits.  He looks so young right now—so young and so lost.  It makes Harry’s heart hurt.  “Shouldn’t have come here, I just….”

“You just didn’t want to be alone?” Harry tries.  He knows the feeling, inside and out.  He also knows that being close to Zayn helps in a way nothing else can.  He wonders if that feeling is reciprocated (even if the romantic emotions he has for the other boy aren’t).

Zayn toes a crack in the pavement.  It seems like it takes forever and a day for him to answer.  “Something like that.”

“Here, come on,” Harry urges.  “Let’s go inside.  Reckon you’ll freeze in just that leather jacket.”

Zayn obediently follows him inside and up the stairs.  Harry’s heart won’t stop hammering away the whole way, even when they’ve reached the landing and he’s searching through his pockets for his keys.  Zayn’s looking at him funny, almost as if he knows.  It’s like he can hear how fast Harry’s heart races.

“I can go, like, if I’m upsetting you.”

“No, no.  Of course not,” Harry assures him.  He finally manages to open the door, and George is there waiting for them.  The tiny dog looks beside himself, not knowing who to go to first. 

Zayn decides for him.  “Hey there, little fellow,” he coos, crouching down to scratch his ears.  George swipes his tongue across Zayn’s knuckles, and the boy winces.  “Mind if I wash up a little?”

“No, go right ahead.  Feel free to take a shower if you’d like,” he offers, trying to chase the blush that accompanies his words away.  “Towels are in the cupboard there.  Also, there’s ointment and a box of plasters behind the mirror.  Help yourself and let me know if you, uh, need help or whatever.”

“Think I might take you up on that shower,” Zayn says gratefully.  “Feel like a dog’s dinner right now—no offence, George,” he tacks on.  Luckily, George doesn’t seem too bothered as he sleepily looks up from his water bowl.

Zayn closes the door behind him, and a minute later, Harry can hear the shower running.  He sits down at the kitchen table, sends off a quick text to Niall letting him know he’s safe and back at the flat.  (He doesn’t add anything about finding Zayn.  He’ll tell his flatmate later; he doesn’t need questions he can’t answer right now.)  Niall replies that he’ll probably be late, and Harry wouldn’t expect anything less.  After all, he _is_ celebrating.

Harry decides to tidy up the kitchen while he’s waiting.  He puts in his earbuds and switches on his latest Spotify playlist, the one he created when he was feeling sorry for himself the other day.  It’s all angst and unrequited love, and really, Harry shouldn’t feed his sorrows like this.  He doesn’t do it normally so he has no idea what came over him when he decided to piece together this playlist from hell.  It may be indulgent, but it’s also exactly what he needs right now.

 _“I believe that fate has brought us here. And we should be together, babe, but we're not,”_ Harry croons as his hips sway to the music.  He rinses a dish and sets it on the rack to dry with the other ones.  _“I may seem alright and smile when you leave, but my smiles are just a front.”_

By the time the chorus hits for the second time, Harry’s all but abandoned his dishwashing duties. He’s clutching onto the bottle of fairy liquid like it’s a microphone, belting out the lyrics with full gusto:   _“I try to say goodbye and I choke. I try to walk away and I stumble. Though I try to hide it, it's clear. My world crumbles when you are not near.”_

There’s a tap on his shoulder and Zayn drops the sponge into the dishwater.  He whips out his earbuds and whirls around to find…a very naked and very tattooed Zayn right in front of him.

To be accurate, Zayn isn’t actually starkers—not completely.  There’s a towel slung low around his hips, but that still leaves more skin visible than Harry ever thought he’d (be blessed to) see.  He wishes he had time to admire it in full, to follow every line of every tattoo with his starved eyes, to trace those perfect V-lines with his—

No, he _definitely_ can’t think about that.  No way.

It’s then he realises that he’s gawking and that Zayn’s sure to have noticed.  He forces himself to look Zayn in the eye and not to gape at the way Zayn’s damp hair falls across his forehead in an attractive fringe.  Nor does he allow himself to imagine running his fingers through it. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Zayn says after what feels like hours, thankfully making no mention of the fact that Harry’s an absolute twat.  Harry could kiss him for that. 

Or not, actually, because they’re just friends.  And friends don’t snog—not generally anyway.  Which now that Harry thinks of it is sort of a shame…a travesty even.

“You alright there, Harry?”

“Y-yes,” he stutters, fishing the sponge out of the soapy water and setting the fairy liquid back on the kitchen counter because why is he even still holding it? 

“Good,” Zayn replies uncertainly but Harry doesn’t turn back around again to face him.  “I was wondering if I could maybe borrow some clothes?  Mine are….”  Zayn doesn’t finish but he doesn’t have to.  After all, Harry saw them earlier.  If he were thinking straight, he would’ve already laid out clothes for the other boy.

“Yeah, just a second; I’ll be back in a tick.”

He rushes past Zayn and into his bedroom.  Quickly, he grabs a pair of grey joggers and a white shirt that won’t be too huge on Zayn’s smaller frame.  He goes to leave the bedroom but sees that Zayn’s looming just inside the door.  He practically thrusts the outfit at Zayn before all but sprinting outside.  He pauses just before closing the door.  “Let me know when you’re um…you know.”  He groans as he pulls the door shut because _seriously_. 

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself so he finishes up the last of the dishes.  When he’s done, he returns to the closed door.  “Is it safe?” he calls timidly.

Zayn slots open the door and greets Harry with an eye-roll.  “’Course it is.  Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know…maybe you bite,” Harry teases. 

For some reason, Zayn doesn’t find his comment amusing in the slightest.  If anything, it seems to bother him.  He retreats back into the room, leaving the door ajar.  Harry nudges it open to find Zayn perched on the edge of his bed.  He’s wearing the joggers and shirt, rubbing his face with his bandaged-up hands, and sighing like the weight of the world is on his broad shoulders.

But to Harry’s surprise, Zayn has a half-smile playing at his lips when he looks up.  “I smell like you,” he says.  “The body wash…clothes….”

“Oh, uh, sorry about that.”

Zayn eyes him warily.  “Didn’t I tell you that you apologise too much, Harry?”

Harry blinks, trying to remember.  “No.  Don’t think so at least.”

“Well, you do.  Way too much.  You should try to control that.”

“Sor—”  Harry catches himself just in time.

Zayn tilts his head to the side and smirks.  “See what I mean?”

“Guess I’m just a serial apologiser.”

“Yeah, well, try to abstain from the practice around me, Mr. Serial Apologiser,” Zayn says with false levity, his eyes betraying the turbidity within his soul right now.  “I think I owe you about a hundred apologies for the way I’ve acted lately so give a lad a chance to get the scales level first, yeah?”

“Okay…think I can do that,” Harry acknowledges before shutting off the light.  He finds his way to the bed by the light of the streetlamps filtering in through the cracks in the drawn shade.  He then sits on the opposite side, his usual side, but of course Zayn already knew that from the breakdown Harry had the other day (not his finest hour).  It feels like they’re too close and too far away at the same time, and Harry’s not sure how that’s even possible.     

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?  Why I went MIA like that?”

“Not unless you want me to…do you want me to?”

Zayn answers him with a dry, cynical laugh.  “What do you think?” 

Harry can’t stand to hear the soullessness in the other boy’s voice so he reaches over and switches on the small lamp at his bedside.  He crawls over to Zayn’s side just as the other boy turns to face him.  Their eyes meet and—

_Damn._

Zayn eyes appear amber in the glow of the lamplight—a deep, rich amber that leaves Harry speechless.  Harry wonders if they could get any more beautiful, if _Zayn_ could get any more beautiful.  That’s when he notices the small speck on the outer edge of his left iris.  There’s something about that ‘imperfection’ that’s everything to him, makes the other boy more real somehow. 

More _human_ perhaps.

Harry would give anything to kiss him now.  Somehow he holds himself back because he knows the light’s playing tricks on him now.  Zayn’s eyes sparkle with something, but it isn’t desire, and it sure as hell ain’t love.  Besides, Zayn’s been through an ordeal tonight.  He doesn’t say it but Harry can see it clearly on every line of his face, in every movement and shade of his voice.  He can see it in the plasters now covering his knuckles and the way Zayn’s combed his hair down on his forehead to cover the tell-tale signs of the welt Harry spotted earlier.

With a pang in his chest, Harry tears his gaze away and slips under the duvet before he breaks his word and does something stupid that could chase Zayn away forever.  “Goodnight, Zayn,” he rasps out, trying not to think of the boy so near to him, trying not to think of anything at all.

“Harry?”

Harry waits to answer until he can make sure that his voice will be steady.  “Yes?”  His heart pounds while he waits for Zayn to continue.

“Um, nothing.  Just…thank you,” the enigmatic boy says so softly Harry has to strain his ears to hear. “Thank you for not sending me away even though you probably should have.”

“I could never send you away,” Harry confides, and it’s like he’s only just realised it as well.  “Not ever.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

The next morning, Harry’s restless and wakes up early.  After dithering about as long as he can, he puts the kettle on.  As if on cue, Zayn walks out of the bedroom, tired and blurry-eyed. 

“Wasn’t sure how you like it so….”  Harry slides a teacup along with the sugar bowl and creamer at Zayn.  “Niall’s still sleeping by the way.”

Zayn takes a sip.  “Since when do you have Yorkshire Gold?”

Harry shrugs non-committedly.  He knows he’s not fooling Zayn, that the other boy can see straight through him.  Still, Harry’s not about to blurt out that he picked it up from the supermarket directly after Zayn mentioned it.

Harry examines Zayn’s hand as he holds the cup.  Harry thought he’d spot some bruising around the plasters but there’s nothing there.  _Nothing._ Harry might think he had the wrong, less-injured hand, but then he sees the _‘love’_ tattoo scrawled across Zayn’s metacarpals. 

Puzzled, he glances up to where the contusion was on Zayn’s forehead, but that’s not there either.  On closer scrutiny, there is a faint yellow-brownish bruise, but that can’t be right.  He knows medicine, knows the stages of bruising, and what he’s seeing now should belong to an injury much older than twelve hours.

“What?” Zayn asks and Harry’s about to tell him but then he hesitates because it sounds absolutely mad.  Zayn can’t control how fast his body heals and maybe the bruise was there before and Harry just missed it.  Or maybe the colour just looked different on Zayn’s pale olive-tinted skin. 

“Nothing,” Harry responds because surely he must have over-exaggerated Zayn’s injuries last night.  Zayn is fine—more than fine, in fact.  He’s so fine that Harry ought to get his eyes checked. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Sir, how much blood can various mammals lose before dying?”

Professor Ferguson is clearly perplexed by the question (as are Harry and the rest of the students in attendance).  “I don’t quite follow you, McIntosh,” the professor states tenuously.  “What pertinence does that question have with our present discussion?”

Harry can’t actually recall what the topic of today’s lecture was because, to be honest, he’s been thinking about Zayn.

It’s nothing new, of course, but he’s not usually _this_ distracted.  Harry’s normally a good student.  Studious, diligent, hard-working, conscientious…you name the superlative, and Harry’s probably had it bunged at him by some admiring miss or sir at some point in his life. 

In his defence, he hasn’t been completely neglecting his discipline.  After all, his contemplations are medical-related:  he’s been trying to solve the quandary of how bruises disappear in the span of less than twenty-four hours.  He’s already googled it, and he’s even asked his mates if they noticed Zayn with any bruises the Thursday before they went out to celebrate on Saturday night.  They hadn’t.  They hadn’t even seen Zayn with any injuries on Saturday, for the love of God, because of his abrupt disappearance from the club.

It was enough to drive one up a wall—particularly if the ‘one’ was a veterinary medicine student.

McIntosh clears his throat loudly.  “I was wondering about the body of the feral goat they found at the edge of Holyrood Park, near Holland House.  It had been drained by a bat… _or something_ ,” he tags on ominously.  Harry’s definitely paying attention now, what with McIntosh mentioning Holland House, Zayn’s halls of residence.  (Harry had finally wheedled that much out of Zayn during their morning cuppa.) 

The professor shrugs, then launches into an answer to the student’s initial query on blood loss as Harry mindlessly records the facts and figures his professor spouts out like water from a loose spigot: 

“ _Forty percent of the body weight for horses…approximately nineteen litres.  Dogs at serious risk after losing a quarter of their blood.  Four classes of haemorrhages in humans…hypovolemic shock, a.k.a. acute peripheral circulatory failure…can lead to multiple organ failure…everything depends on underlying causes and how quickly a transfusion is possible…any blood loss over forty percent will be too great a strain on the cardiovascular system of most mammals….”_

The professor eventually finishes his spiel and looks up.  “I can see another question in your eyes, McIntosh.  Out with it.”

The boy clears his throat.  “Alright…well…last week we were discussing Burk and Hare and someone mentioned to me that they drained the bodies of their victims first?  Do you think that’s what might be happening around town, sir?  I’ve heard reports that—”

“I’m going to stop you there, McIntosh,” the professor interrupts brusquely.  “The last thing we need at a time like this is to propagate sensational, lugubrious theories which in no way fit the facts.” 

Then, his harshness abates slightly, and the studious professor even smiles indulgently at the boy sitting a row below Harry.  “No, there are no vampires in that story just as there are no vampires at Holyrood Park or Blackness Castle—just in case you’re about to bring up _that_ old myth.  And despite what you may have heard from a midnight tour of Old Town, there are no ghosts either.”  The students laugh at that, and he smiles broadly, enjoying his audience.  “Again, they’re just a way for people to make an extra quid.  Rely on science, lads and lasses,” he advises them.  “It will never let you down.”

Harry gathers his books and can’t help but feel the additional weight of too many unexplained occurrences lately.  Unfortunately, science doesn’t seem to be offering up many solutions. 

Or maybe he’s just not looking hard enough.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

_And I know I like to draw that line, when it starts to get too real  
But the less time that I spend with you, the less you need to heal_

-“Talk Me Down,” Troye Sivan

**(Zayn)**

 

It’s movie night at Harry and Niall’s but evidently only Zayn and Harry got the memo.

“How about _Doctor Strange_?” Zayn suggests, raising his voice enough to be heard over the sound of popping kernels coming from the microwave. 

Zayn’s been lounged on the sofa for a while now, browsing the newly-added titles on Netflix.  He’d had a productive day—spent the morning in a lecture and then the casting room before heading out to his first day of training at the pub.  Now he can hardly keep his eyes open despite the fact that the night’s still young.

Really, he deserves the ‘most pathetic vampire of the century’ award because he doubts he’s going to be able to keep his eyes open past ten tonight.

“ _Doctor Strange_?” Harry repeats, unsure.  The microwave dings and a second later, all Zayn can smell is buttered popcorn.  It isn’t the least bit tantalising, but Zayn welcomes it anyway because it means he’ll be less distracted by Harry’s scent during the film.  “Isn’t that the Marvel one?  Won’t Liam have a strop if we watch it without him?”

“He’s seen it,” Zayn informs him, sitting up and taking the bowl of popcorn from Harry before he spills it.  “Besides, it’s his fault anyway for bailing on us last minute.  And speaking of no-shows, where’s your flatmate?”

“He should be here soon.  Not sure what’s keeping him.”

Zayn nods.  “So how about _Doctor Strange_ then?  I think it would be right up your alley.”

Harry grins mischievously.  “Are you calling me strange, Zayn?”

“I was referring to the ‘doctor’ part.  Believe me,” he grunts, “I’ve got ‘strange’ covered.”

Zayn’s just about to get the movie cued up when someone bursts through the front door.  Even though they’re sat a metre apart on the couch, Zayn jumps up as if he’s been caught by the parents.  He does his best to sink back down without looking like an idiot when he freezes and openly gapes at Harry’s flatmate.  Niall is completely covered in mud from head to toe.  Zayn can’t help the words that slip from his mouth:

“What the bloody hell happened to you, mate?  You end up in a lake or summat?”

“Don’t even ask,” Niall groans before limping off towards his bedroom, squishy sounds accompanying each footfall.  He’s back again a minute later, still caked in mud but now mumbling colourful curses under his breath as he makes his way to the bathroom.  The door slams loudly behind him.

Zayn can barely hold it together, and then he makes the mistake of glancing at Harry.  They lose it just as the shower comes on.

“Poor Nialler,” Harry coughs out through tears.  “We really shouldn’t be laughing; looks like he had a tough day on the links.”

“Well, I had a tough first day, too,” Zayn whinges and Harry clucks sympathetically.  “I mean, I didn’t have to survive The Hunger Games like Niall apparently did, but it was still taxing.  I’ve had a crick in my neck since four, and I can’t remember half the drinks I made today.”

“Oh you poor thing,” Harry coos, pressing play before reaching over to massage his shoulders.  Zayn can’t help but lean into the touch as he wonders where the popcorn bowl disappeared to (not that he much cares).  The Marvel title sequence flashes across the screen, and that’s the last thing Zayn remembers before he closes his eyes.

Some time later, it’s pitch black and Harry is nudging him awake.  “C’mon, sleepyhead, time for bed.”  Zayn moves a smidge so Harry can get up, but Harry doesn’t budge.  He seems to be waiting for something.  “Zayn, wanna share my bed again?  It’s more comfortable than the couch.”

“I think—”

“No,” Harry shushes him, “don’t think.”

“Alright then.  Yes…yes, I do.”  He lets Harry lead him to the bedroom.  Two friends sharing a bed together, that’s all it is.  “So how was the film?” Zayn yawns, crawling under the duvet and lifting it to his chin.

“I watched _The Notebook_ ,” Harry admits sheepishly, scooting closer to him. 

“Of course you did,” he smiles, “hopeless romantic.”

“You calling me hopeless, Zayn Brannon?” Harry asks cheekily.

“Nah, you’re the ‘romantic,’” Zayn confesses.  “I’ve got ‘hopeless’ covered, babe.”  The term of endearment is out of his mouth and well into the open air before he realises his mistake.  He sincerely hopes Harry didn’t notice the slip, but the way the human’s heartrate immediately quickens tells him otherwise.

If Zayn were better at compulsion, he might try to take it back, to erase it from Harry’s impressionable mind.  Unfortunately, he’s not so he just pretends it never happened.

And luckily, so does Harry.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn checks the time on his phone and breathes easier when he sees he’s ten minutes early (for once).  He smooths out a wrinkle in his trousers and fastens the top button of his black shirt before pushing open the door to Molly Bloom’s.  It’s the slow time after lunch and his eyes scan the nearly empty pub until he spots Niall sitting at one of the corner tables.  He doesn’t recognise the girl at the bar so he heads on over to his friend.

“Afternoon, Niall.”

Niall glances up, puts a finger in the air as he quickly chews his mouthful of food and washes it down with beer.  “What’s the craic, Brannon?”

“’m good.  Hey, you know where Sharon is, mate?”

“She’s poorly so I get to train you today—lucky you,” he says, cracking a smile.  “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be early, and I’m savage with the hunger.”

“Yeah, been there….”  And fuck, Zayn’s _totally_ been there.

“So the thing is, I didn’t get to eat a proper breakfast this morning because Harry left early.  Won’t be a minute though.  Hey, you want some?”

Zayn examines Niall’s half-eaten plate of bangers and mash, and it turns his stomach just a little.  “No, I’m good.”

“Yeah, you don’t eat; I forgot,” he says matter-of-factly and Zayn tries not to roll his eyes.  “Oi—what’s that crap on your face?”  The Irishman peers across the table.  “That lippy?”

“I, um….”  Zayn licks his lips, and he tastes it.  There’s fresh blood coating his lower lip.  He thought he had wiped it off, but he was so anxious about his second day of training, he must have missed some.  Niall offers him his untouched water glass and a napkin with a knowing wink, and Zayn quickly dabs the napkin in the water to remove the evidence.

“Nice one,” Niall chuckles.  “Didn’t know you were such a fierce Casanova…and at three in the bloody afternoon, too.”

Zayn offers a sickly smile in return, inwardly berating himself for being so damn careless. 

“So…anything serious?” Niall asks before shoving more food into his mouth.

“No, just a girl that lives on my floor,” he lies.  “I’ve been trying to tell her I’m not interested, but it’s hard because I see her every day, like.”

Niall smirks.  “Obviously you haven’t been doing a good job of it.”

Zayn studies the tattoos on his hands.  “No, guess not.”

“I reckon it’s about time you thought about moving out.  I hear it’s shit staying in halls.”

“I don’t know; it’s not so bad,” Zayn tells him even though Niall’s got a point—it is a right pain.  He has a private room and everything, but it still gets tricky at times.  On the other hand, Zayn’s a creature of habit, and the thought of moving mid-year gives him phantom ulcers.  

“Bollocks, you know you don’t want to be stuck on the other side of town with a rake of scaldy freshers.”  He takes a sip of his beer and then his eyes fall to where he spied the ‘lipstick’ earlier.  “Or maybe you do,” he hints, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“No, it’s just fucking taxing trying to find something close to school, and I’d rather live by myself than have a shit flatmate.”

Niall’s expression changes, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully.  “So basically, the only thing that’s stopping you is that there’s not much available, and you don’t want to end up with a shit flatmate?”

Zayn shrugs.  “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Hmmm.  Well, isn’t that a coincidence….”

Zayn’s almost afraid to ask, but he doesn’t have to wait long for Niall to spill all.  “Been thinking about moving out of me and Harry’s flat but don’t tell Harry, yeah?”

“Why would you want to move?  Did Harry add more paisley or something?”

Niall guffaws.  “He’s a rare breed, isn’t he?”  He shakes his head fondly.  “Nah, might wanna set up house with the missus—er, girlfriend.  Besides, that hour-and-a-half commute to St. Andrews is pure murder.  I was hoping to get something a bit more central.  Alison’s been looking around at places.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you think?” Niall presses.  “Reckon you might be up for it?  It would be a massive help to both of us.  I’m not about to walk out on Harry or dump him with some wanker flatmate.”

Zayn’s head is swimming.  “What about Liam?  They’re like best mates, aren’t they?”

“Liam’s sorted, and I thought this might be good for you anyway.  Might give you an excuse for leaving halls early since you’re not exactly a spotty teenager, are you now?” 

_Yeah, not exactly._

“And you want something convenient, like you said,” Niall continues eagerly.  “Our flat is about as convenient as it gets to the College of Art.”

“Well…um…yes, but—”

“And you get along with Harry so there’s no problem there, of course.”

“Well yeah,” Zayn admits, feeling a bit like he’s being driven into a corner.  “But, I mean, the thing is—”

“Brilliant!” Niall says decisively, reaching over the table to slap Zayn on the shoulder.  “I’ll tell Harry and Allison it’s all sorted tonight then.  First of the month okay?  Think you’ve got until Friday to fill out the form to get your money back for the term—I may have checked for you.”

“The first?” Zayn hiccups.  “But that’s in like a week!”

“Yeah, and it’s Harry’s birthday as well…which reminds me.”  Niall sets his fork down.  “I wanted to know if you’d be willing to go in on this new electric mixer he’s been wanting.  Figure we could swing it between the two of us because Payno, the shithead, already bought something without telling me.  So what do you say?”

“Oh, um, yeah.  Count me in.  Definitely.”

“Good, then it’s settled,” Niall announces before laying his utensils down and checking the time.  “Guess we ought to get busy then.  As much as I’d love to sit and chat, I know Sharon is expecting me to teach you something.  I’ll show you how to prep for opening, and then we’ll practice making a few drinks.”

Niall’s starts reciting the list of opening duties before they even get to the kitchen, and it’s probably a good thing.  It keeps Zayn’s mind occupied and prevents him from deliberating on how Niall just convinced him to move in with Harry in the span of ten minutes when Zayn had absolutely no bloody intention of doing so beforehand. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn’s drying his hair from the shower when Harry unceremoniously pushes the door open and starts setting up his shaving kit in the narrow bathroom they share.  Zayn is grateful he had sense enough to bring his boxers and an undershirt in because this is the second time it’s happened in three days, and he’s really considering ringing someone to have a lock installed on the bathroom door.

“A knock would be nice.”  Zayn doesn’t even attempt to hold back his snarkiness.

Harry appears startled, as if the idea’s never occurred to him to actually fucking knock.  “Oh, sorry!  Just thought I’d make use of the double vanity, you know, but I’ll definitely do that next time—knock, I mean,” he explains, stumbling over his words in the sweetest way.  He scratches his head and offers up a dopey grin, and Zayn couldn’t stay mad if he tried.  “Just not used to it, after living with Niall and all, since we were both what you’d call—”

“Exhibitionists?”

Harry giggles boyishly.  “Well, me more so than Niall, but basically yes.”

_Great._

“Want me to leave?”

“No, s’alright; I’m just about finished.”  Zayn runs a comb through his still damp hair, trying to convince it to lay how he wants it.  He squirts a dime-sized dollop of product into his palms, then works it into his disobedient quiff with his fingers.

“Your hair’s quite lovely.”

Zayn glances curiously at the boy to his left.  “Uh…thanks.”

“I meant that in the most laddish way possible,” Harry quips, lips quirked into a half-smile.  He kicks the door closed with his bare toes and starts filling the sink.  Zayn hopes he’ll do more shaving and less conversing (and less simpering in front of the mirror in just his boxer because it’s _distracting_ and Zayn’s got places to go).  But apparently, this isn’t Zayn’s day.

“Do you ever shave?”

“What, you don’t like the scruff?”  Zayn scratches his chin and raises it as if to prove a point.  It isn’t quite a beard, but it isn’t a shadow either.  It isn’t that bad, if he’s honest.  In either case, it’s none of Harry’s fucking business how he chooses to groom himself.  It’s nobody’s fucking business.

“N-no, that’s not what I meant,” Harry stammers.  “I think everything suits you, Zayn.  It’s just that, well, I’ve never seen you shave, and your beard doesn’t seem to grow much.”

Oh.

The thing is…Zayn _does_ shave.  He just doesn’t shave as much as a normal human male would (and not nearly as much as he did when _he_ counted himself in that group).  And fuck, he’s lived by himself or with other vampires for so long that he’s never pondered how problematic something as simple as shaving (or not shaving) would be.

“I use an electric razor,” Zayn hears himself saying, but Harry’s still peering at him closely, examining him like he might examine one of his four-legged patients.  “That’s why.”

“Maybe.”  Harry’s not convinced. 

“Oh, and I’ve got a lower guard on my trimmer; can’t remember exactly what it’s set at now….”

“The one still in the box on the kitchen counter next to my new mixer?” Harry asks slyly.  “Or is there another trimmer I don’t know about?”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Zayn snaps, returning his attention to his ornery mop and away from his almost-beard that Harry can’t seem to stop gawking at.  “Geez, Niall should’ve warned me I was moving in with the bloody Spanish Inquisition.”

“No need to get defensive about it,” Harry shrugs.  “Like I said, it suits you.”

They’ve only been living together for one week and already Zayn can tell this is going to be a fucking catastrophe. 

Harry waves the hand holding the razor and Zayn ducks out of the way.  “Wait a tick—how old are you, Zayn?”

“Old enough to work in a bar…and grow a proper beard, thank you very much.”

Harry rolls his eyes.  “Why don’t you ever answer that question?”

“I don’t know…why don’t you ever quit asking it?”  Zayn avoids the other boy’s unhappy stare and brushes his teeth, being careful to turn away so Harry’s not measuring the length of his canines because he’s got nothing better to do.

“I could just sneak a peek at your driving licence, you know.”

Zayn spits into the sink in front of him and twists his head to the boy with a smug look on his face.  “You could do, I suppose,” Zayn muses aloud, taking his time to rinse before adding, “if I _had_ a driving licence.”

“Passport?” Harry tries.

“Not anywhere you’d find it.” 

“Oh corn nuts—there goes my clever plan.  Guess you’ll just have to tell me then.”

Zayn looks at him hard.  It really shouldn’t pain him this much to tell a fib (gigantic lie) to Harry, but it does.  He’s not sure what makes it particularly difficult to keep lying to this boy because he’s never really had this issue before now.  Besides, maybe he’s just paranoid, but Zayn swears Harry can see through the smokescreen of lies anyway. 

That’s precisely when he gets the flash of brilliance.  “Fine, you win.  I was born in ’93.  January.”  And that’s not a lie; it’s the God’s honest truth.

Harry brightens up immediately, face looking clown-like with a thick layer of shaving cream that is definitely an overkill for the (lack of) facial hair he’s sporting.  “Really?” he says like it’s the greatest news he’s heard since sliced bread.  “I was born in ’94!  February!”

“Did I ask?” Zayn deadpans.  “Besides, I know how old you are.  You just had a birthday.”

“So did you, apparently,” Harry frowns.  “Thanks for not mentioning it.”

“No problem—it was weeks ago anyway.  And you shouldn’t be chuntering on while using a razor, by the way.  You want to be more careful; those things are dangerous.”

“I think I know how to use a razor,” the younger boy huffs, following the grain of his beard in a way that Zayn finds oddly satisfying.  He watches Harry for longer than he should before getting back to finishing his own routine.

“Ah, fragdaggle!”

Zayn looks over to see Harry throwing the razor down in frustration.  “What is it?” he asks uneasily, but he needn’t have bothered really because it hits his nostrils then:  the smell of blood, _human_ blood, _Harry’s_ blood.  And fuck, he’s got to get out of here.

But of course, Harry’s blocking the door.

Harry splashes some cold water on his face and towels it off while Zayn tries to stop himself from letting his feral instincts take charge.  He’s still ‘human’ even if he isn’t exactly…well, human.  He can handle this.  He splashes cold water over his own face and then grips the edge of the sink tightly.

“Sight of blood bother you?” Harry asks, picking up a styptic pencil.  “Also, feel free to take the piss; you were right,” he sighs.  “Sorry, I just…my hand…I don’t know,” he says nonsensically.  “Right bungler, I am.”

Harry drops the pencil then and turns to rest his back against the sink.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a shuddering breath in.  He looks like he’s about to cry which Zayn can’t understand at all because it was just a nick.  It’s already stopped bleeding, in fact (much to Zayn’s immense relief).  He can’t explain Harry’s overreaction at all.

“What is it?” Zayn tries, smoothing a hand over his bicep.  “There’s no need to be upset, babe.”  The pet word escapes his lips again, but he isn’t bothered this time (even though he should be).

Harry gazes up at him tearily.  “Sorry, I just can’t seem to do anything right lately.”

“Well, I beg to differ.”  Zayn knows he’s dangerously close as he stands in front of the other boy, calming him down with his eyes.  He can feel Harry’s stress dissipate as he moves his hand to brush a curl away from his temple. 

He lets the pad of his thumb slide down Harry’s face, follow just below the thin sliver of a cut by his jaw.  Harry trembles as he does do, biting his lip hard and closing his eyes.    

And then it’s almost as if Harry knows what he wants.  The human tilts his head back, offering up the beautiful, naked expanse that Zayn spends more minutes of the day fantasising about than he should.  Zayn goes in, attaches his lips to the crook of Harry’s neck, and inhales the heady aroma of salted caramel and orange blossoms, chased with the minty scent of the shaving cream.  His tongue darts out to taste further, and he almost faints from the overwhelming pleasure-filled waves that overtake him.

Zayn grips the countertop on either side of the boy and presses forward, trapping Harry between him and the sink.  Harry’s hardness nudges painfully against him as Zayn licks a stripe up his exposed neck.  He swoops in then, mouths hard against Harry’s pulsing carotid until Harry’s practically bent over the sink.  He glances down to see fingers splayed on faux white marble, imagines how the sight of crimson droplets would look against the virgin whiteness, and then he loses all sense of restraint.

He slides his tongue over his front teeth, pulling back only enough to spy the way Harry’s jugular pulses in rhythm to his erratic heartbeat.  An adrenaline-like rush fills him as he prepares to spring when—

“We can’t,” Harry says breathlessly, pushing at Zayn’s chest with one hand.  Zayn doesn’t budge at first, he’s so far gone.  Every fibre within him wants to overpower the boy, to latch his fangs into that mouth-watering throat and _drink_ until he’s satiated, until the Thirst leaves him.

But then he sees Harry’s eyes, and it draws him back from the brink.  He just wants to protect Harry—from pain, from the world, from…Zayn.

He stumbles back and tries to collect himself.  “Yeah, you’re right.  We can’t.”

“Yeah, because nothing’s changed,” Harry says as he searches Zayn’s eyes.  “Nothing _has_ changed—has it, Zayn?”

“I’m…not sure what you mean.”

Harry’s face falls.  “Exactly.” 

He’s about to exit when Zayn finally gathers up the courage to speak.  “You’re angry with me, aren’t you?  You’ve a right to be angry.  I shouldn’t have started that.”

“No, I’m not angry; I just don’t want to confuse things,” Harry sighs, refusing to look at him now.  His hand freezes around the doorknob like he doesn’t want to leave but he knows he can’t stay either.

“Confuse things?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, leaning his forehead against the door for a moment.  “It’s clear that I’m not what you want, and you’re not what I need.”

After Harry’s gone, Zayn swipes an arm angrily across the top of the sink.  Toiletries fly everywhere, but he doesn’t give them a second glance as he lowers onto his haunches, back against the wall.  He takes a few measured breaths whether he needs them or not.  When he’s ready, he begins to tidy up the mess he’s created—the physical one at any rate. 

He’s disgusted with himself.  Utterly and completely disgusted with himself on every level imaginable. 

He decides then and there that he needs to create some boundaries for himself—for both of them, really—if this is going to work. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

That night, after Harry falls asleep and the traffic of the streets below dulls to an intermittent hum, Zayn creeps out. 

He finds a dark bar on the other side of town where he picks up a girl with trusting eyes.  He fucks her hard when they’re back at her dingy flat, waiting until she’s about to orgasm until he latches his fangs into her neck. 

She doesn’t stop him even after she comes down from her high, seems to get off on it, in fact.  (He can always tell the type; Louis taught him well.)  Her blood tastes like the cheap perfume she’s got on, and it’s tainted by sugary alcohol.  It leaves him with a bitter aftertaste that lingers even after he’s compelled her to forget him.

It’s early morning by the time he makes his way across town, the sun painting the sky pink behind the stone structures proudly gracing Calton Hill.  The image evokes echoes of a time when he was still human, when the city still spoke of completing the unfinished National Monument.  It was Louis’ favourite place in the entire world, he said—there, in the lap of the Gods, the whole city at one’s feet.

Zayn enters the flat quietly, feels like he’s a teenager sneaking in after curfew.  Harry’s still asleep from what he can tell when he sheds his clothes and stands under the showerhead.  It takes an interminable time before he feels even remotely ‘clean.’

He vows never to do it again, just as he did six weeks ago, just as he does every damn time.  It’s not that Zayn’s stupid; it’s just that his wishful thinking often gets the best of him.  Like now.  Deep down, he knows he can only sustain himself on poor substitutes for so long before he needs the real thing, before his body requires fresh human blood.  It’s a tough pill to swallow, even after all this time:  a life sentence with no chance of parole or commutation.

Still, it’s better to do what he’d just done than risk what happened earlier with Harry.  Zayn knows how to control himself with random shags.  He knows when to stop, can _trust_ himself to stop.

With Harry, he isn’t sure of anything at all.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The next few weeks pass much more smoothly.  They’re both busy—time occupied with lectures, assignments, work, and occasional nights out with their mates.  They barely spend any so-called one-on-one time together, but Zayn’s not complaining.  Harry isn’t either.  If it weren’t for the fact that Harry hasn’t changed at all towards him, Zayn might think the curly-haired vet student was going out of his way to avoid him.  The truth is, they barely see one another when at home.  Their schedules and routines seem to be naturally staggered with Harry taking the first ‘shift’ and Zayn, the second.  Zayn begins to think that this setup might be a blessing when something throws a spanner into the works.

Zayn’s got his earbuds in, working on a sketch when he smells it.  He can’t concentrate, can’t do anything.  It smells like a fucking barn, and his hypersensitive sense of smell is making him want to gag. 

He plucks out his earbuds and charges into the main room to investigate.  Harry’s home, and so he directs his question at him, plugging his nose because it’s even worse in here.  “Holy shit, what’s that rank smell?” 

“Oh sorry, that’s me,” Harry apologises, and Zayn almost does a double take.

“There’s no way that’s coming from you.  I mean, it reeks of fucking manure.”

“Yep, that’s me,” Harry insists, looking like he wants to crawl in a hole.  “We went down to Langhill today—the farm, yeah—and I’ve been working with horses and cows all day.  Also, I may have slipped and fell into a trough this morning.  Thought it would have mostly dissipated by now though.”

“Well, no offence, but it hasn’t.”

“Huh,” Harry ponders, shaking his head.  “Niall never complained much.  You must really have a good sense of smell.”

George starts pawing at the window like he wants it open, and Zayn points triumphantly at him.  “Look, even George is suffering.  Go shower, and I’ll take the little guy out for a walk.”

George eagerly trots towards the door upon hearing the w-word, and Harry throws his hands up in defeat.  “Fine, I’m outnumbered again.”

It’s nice weather for early March—for Edinburgh at any rate—so Zayn decides to take George for a longer stroll than usual.  (And if that gives Harry plenty of time to get fully dressed before they return, then Zayn’s not complaining.)  He elects to take the hound to the Meadows where they kill a little time before Zayn figures they best get back.  Besides, a peculiar feeling’s come over him.  It’s like he’s being watched, like there are eyes lurking behind every tree.  George senses it as well (or maybe the dog’s just reacting to Zayn’s potent paranoia; he can’t quite tell). 

Zayn can’t shake the strange feeling the whole way back, but he forgets his foolishness as soon as he’s back inside the flat.  Everything’s just as it should be—better even.  Harry’s put a scented candle out, and he smells clean and fresh and so _Harry._

“That better, drama queens?” Harry chastises, hands on hips.

Zayn can’t help what he does next.  He strides right up to the boy who looks less and less smug the closer he gets.  Harry’s breath hitches as Zayn finally stops just before him and leans in.  He inhales deeply, a wet strand of hair tickling his nose.  “Much better,” he confirms with a contented sigh.  “ _So_ much better.”

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 _I'm not alright right now_  
_I'm having trouble seeing you for what you do_  
_I'm not alright, worn down_  
_From make-believing that you love me too_

-“Frustrated,” R.LUM.R

**(Harry)**

 

“ _So_ much better,” Zayn murmurs again.  The older boy pulls back and there’s an almost wild look in his eyes, but Harry’s not scared despite the way his heart’s pounding in his chest. 

He’s wanted this for so long, and right now, he doesn’t care about the consequences.  He’ll take what he can get, whatever Zayn’s willing to give him. 

He loses himself then—loses himself in super-long lashes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and cool hands that dip under his shirt with an urgency that’s almost too much to take.  He inhales quickly, expectantly, and lets his eyes close.  Zayn’s lips ghost over his, and then it’s as if his body exhales a soft ‘ _finally’_ because this is everything he’s ever wanted.

But then without warning, Zayn’s hands tense at his sides.  Harry opens his eyes just in time to catch the look of pure horror in hazel eyes before he feels himself being shoved backward with a strength Harry wouldn’t have given Zayn credit for.

For a second, he’s too stunned to do anything.  Anger and indignation bubble up within him, but before he can confront Zayn, a single, loud knock cuts through the tension-filled air.

“Miss me, Malik?” a high-pitched voice rings out, before the door to the flat swings open with a bang.

It’s at that precise moment that George starts howling his head off.  Even Harry jumps at the sound because although he’s used to the occasional baying, George hasn’t howled like this since…well, the day Zayn came into their lives.

The stranger covers his ears and scrunches his face up as though the little dog’s incessant howling is somehow painful to him rather than just an annoyance.  “Will someone shut that mutt up?”

Whatever’s going on, Harry doesn’t want George in the thick of it so he does as the intruder asks.  He whispers a quick apology to George before locking him up in his bedroom with a few toys and a treat because George won’t stop when he gets like this.  Harry learned that the hard way.

“Finally, I can hear myself think,” the intruder complains, massaging his temples.

Harry looks to Zayn, and it’s apparent he’s acquainted with the stranger who just walked in unannounced even if Harry isn’t.  It makes Harry relax slightly—well, until he hears the next words out of Zayn’s mouth:

“What the fuck are you doing here, Louis?”

Louis rolls his eyes and takes a step closer.  Zayn automatically moves to shield Harry, and now Harry senses the threat.  Zayn’s whole body is rigid, gearing up for either fight or flight.  Harry’s definitely on edge now.

“Let me guess,” Louis yawns, looking anything but threatening now, “you’re still holding that idiotic grudge, aren’t you?”

Zayn ignores him, just wraps a protective arm around Harry who has attached himself to Zayn’s side.  From here, Harry can see the visitor has piercing blue eyes and a forced, thin-lipped smile.  There’s also something incredibly familiar about him although Harry can’t quite put his finger on why.  He’s sure he would’ve remembered this man because of his sheer presence.  The stranger moves about as if he’s important, as if he’s used to being the centre of attention.  He’s on the smaller side, but there’s a magnetic charisma about him that seems to swallow up the energy of the whole room. 

“Well, I see you’re still the brilliant conversationalist, Mal—”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Zayn says forcefully, and Harry’s got no idea why his friend suddenly looks so distressed.  “Just Zayn.”

“Oh, of course,” Louis simpers.  “I should have enquired first.  My sincerest apologies, _Just Zayn_.”

“Lou, ya bas,” a female voice scolds, “Don’t be getting intae a rammy when we’ve just come an’ all.”

Harry doesn’t mean to stare, but he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone quite like this girl before.  She’s got a coppery-pink pixie cut (longer fringe, shorter in back), mocha skin, and grey eyes.  Her loose, white singlet shows off a massive ‘Tree of Life’ tattoo that reaches from her shoulder and branches out down one arm to form a full sleeve.  He watches as she glides towards Louis and slaps him across the stomach with the back of her hand before kissing him on the lips with a loud smack.

She pulls away and then her demeanour does a complete one-eighty as she catches sight of Zayn.  “Hiya, love,” she greets him, a little uncertainly.  “Fit like min?”

“Yeah, bloody fantastic,” Zayn snorts.  And how about you, Cal?  You good?”

“Aye, always.” 

This ‘Cal’ has a sweet, lilting brogue that’s clearly Scottish although it doesn’t sound like the Edinburgh accent he’s grown accustomed to.  Her accent’s so thick, it almost sounds like she’s speaking Gaelic at times.  Zayn seems to understand her with ease though, yet another mysterious fact about his flatmate.  Her companion’s English—West Yorkshire clearly.

“Well, don’t you two look all loved up?” Zayn sneers.  He sounds bitter—jealous even—and Harry definitely doesn’t want to think about that. 

Louis smirks.  “I could say the same about you and the hu—”

“He doesn’t know,” Zayn cuts him off hurriedly.  Zayn’s shaking now—almost violently, and Harry’s worried and beyond confused.  He reaches out for Zayn, finds his elbow to latch on to.  As usual, Zayn’s skin is cool to the touch, but Harry doesn’t mind at this point.  He’s grown accustomed to it.  Besides, he enjoys being Zayn’s warmth.

Zayn relaxes almost immediately under his touch, and Harry notices that the girl is watching them closely.  It ignites a possessive streak Harry didn’t even know he had. 

Louis appears amused, delightedly so.  “’He doesn’t know?’” he echoes, snickering a little as he glances at the girl next to him.  “Pray, tell me how you managed _that_?”  He settles on the sofa and folds his arms behind his head.  “I mean, he doesn’t look like the sharpest knife in the knife drawer, but come _on_.”

Harry prickles at the insult, but he doesn’t dare defend himself.  He knows there’s something Zayn’s not telling him (or a lot of things probably); however, stepping into this face-off between Zayn and Louis seems like a foolhardy move.  Besides, he knows Zayn has his back. 

Except he doesn’t. 

He just stands there seething, glaring at the other boy.  It’s actually the girl who comes to his defence.  “ _Lou_ ,” she admonishes.  “Yer being a right bam—quit havering.”  She lets out a long-suffering sigh and blinks at them apologetically. 

Zayn shifts his glance to the speaker.  There’s an almost imploring look in his eyes, and Harry’s heart plummets.  He gets it now:  Zayn’s in love with her, and it’s so bloody obvious. 

She nods at Zayn and there’s a silent exchange of words.  “Maybe this isnae the best time, lads.” 

“Yeah, sure.  Whatever,” Louis hums.  “We’ll wait until the hu—”

“Harry,” Zayn breaks in.  “His name’s _Harry_ , Goddammit.  But yeah, this has got nothing to do with him.”

Harry tries not to feel hurt by the cursory way Zayn’s just dismissed him.  He really does.

“Yeah, so there’s a pub down the street, but don’t get any ideas,” Zayn warns incomprehensibly, eying Louis in particular.  “You can wait downstairs; I’ll be just a minute, yeah?”  Zayn’s ‘friends’ depart then, Louis muttering something incomprehensible under his breath as he stands up and follows Cal out the door.

“What just happened?” Harry asks after he’s sure they’re gone.

“Unfortunately,” Zayn begins as he slips on a coat, “I don’t have time to explain, but I’ve got to handle this.”  He clears his throat and awkwardly shifts his weight from foot to foot.  “And, uh, sorry for what happened earlier; I didn’t mean to shove you that hard, I swear.  I just heard them coming down the hall, like, and I didn’t want them to, well….”

_See us together._

Harry thinks again of the way Zayn was looking at Cal and a wistfulness fills him.  He quickly shakes it off.

“Harry, you’re alright, yeah?  I didn’t hurt you?”  There’s true concern in his expression when Harry searches it, and that makes everything somehow worse.

“Yeah,” Harry struggles.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Well, I better go; they’re expecting me.”

“Zayn, Is everything okay?” Harry blurts out.  He wants to ask more, but he doesn’t.  He doesn’t feel like he has the right really.

“I don’t know,” Zayn says softly, a profound loneliness in his eyes.  “I thought I could escape the past, start again….”  His voice trails off, and his shoulders droop resignedly.  “Guess I was just fooling myself.” 

Zayn leaves then without another word.  And despite the easel in the living room, the extra toothbrush in the bathroom, and the box of Yorkshire Gold now permanently residing on the shelf where Niall kept his coffee, Harry wonders if he’ll ever see the raven-haired boy again.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry is good at waiting.

He goes out for a bit, just to kill time, buys a cheese and tomato baguette and a copy of the Edinburgh Evening News.  Niall often tells Harry he ought to join the twenty-first century and get his news online, but Harry has a nostalgia for certain things he can’t give up even if he’s too young to remember them.  He likes his vinyl, likes his paper the traditional way.  It’s just how he is.

A little later, he has a cuppa—Zayn’s Yorkshire Gold though he swears to himself that doesn’t mean anything—and glances at the front page of the paper.  There’s an article about the likelihood of another referendum and more on the disappearances of dogs and cats in the metropolitan area.  He only skims for new information on that because he’s already aware of most of the details from his updates with Liam. 

Even so, he struggles more than usual after Zayn leaves.  Zayn doesn’t return that afternoon or that night.  He does text Harry a simple message, letting him know he’s safe and just needs a couple of days to get his mind straight and ‘deal with a few things’.

Despite the “x” at the end of the text, Harry can’t help but feel it’s a brush-off.

 

**\+ + +**

 

It’s three days later before Zayn shows up again at their door.  Harry considers not opening it.  He gives in after a condensed internal struggle because logically he knows this is Zayn flat as well. 

He doesn’t ask any questions—not that Zayn’s supplying any answers.

 

**\+ + +**

 

There’s a familiar musical laughter as Harry enters the flat, and it automatically brightens his otherwise dull day.  Harry’s thrilled his flatmate’s finally found something to be happy about again.  Zayn had been sullen and closed off ever since he came back, and Harry was starting to get concerned.

Zayn’s door is wide open so Harry peeks in.  Zayn’s sprawled out on his bed, talking on the phone, and Harry’s not sure if he should interrupt him to say hullo or just get started on his reading.  He waits awkwardly in the doorway until Zayn motions for him to stay.

 _‘Cal,’_ Zayn mouths, holding up his index finger to let Harry know he’s almost finished with the call.

Harry nods.  He gets it now.  He understands the happy glow on Zayn’s face as he says goodbye to the Scottish beauty, and despite the fact Harry knows he hasn’t got a chance with Zayn, he can’t help but feel the smallest twinge of a feeling he’s better off not labelling.   

“She’s perfect for you, just so you know.”

Zayn blinks up at him.  “What are you going on about then?”

“Cal,” Harry says as if it weren’t obvious who he was referring to in the first place.  “She’s perfect for you.”

“Cal?” Zayn repeats like he’s never heard the name before in his life.  “Cal as in Calyx Dawn?”

“The one you were just chatting with.”  He takes a deep breath because this hurts like the dickens to say aloud.  “The one you’re in love with.”

Zayn snorts and stares at Harry like he’s gone mad for saying what they both surely know is true.  “You’re being ridiculous.  What makes you think I’m in love with _Cal_?”

“She’s bloody gorgeous, and unique, and has edgy hair,” Harry blubbers.  “She’s got a nose ring, and cool tattoos, and—

“Edgy hair?” Zayn queries.  “You really think I’m that shallow, Haz?  And half the people I know have a shitload of tattoos.”  He starts ticking them off.  “You, Liam, Louis—”

“I said _cool_ tattoos,” Harry cuts him off, examining the motley collection on his arms forlornly.  He has a personal attachment to every mark on his skin, but facts are facts.

Zayn chuckles against his ear, wrapping the other boy in a friendly hug which makes Harry’s heart leap out of his chest.  “You’re being a proper dolt, you know that, right?”

“Don’t patronise me,” Harry grumps, untangling himself.  He can’t be that close to Zayn.  Not when he’s feeling like this.

Zayn appears miffed by Harry’s reaction.  “Then stop jumping to conclusions.  Cal’s a friend, nothing more,” he insists, tone adamant.  “Don’t see why it matters anyway.”

“But you two are so alike,” Harry argues because he _has_ to be right about this.  “She’s basically like the female version of you!”

“Think you’ve just hit the nail on the head there, Haz.”

“Huh?”

Zayn smiles that crinkly-eyed smile that makes his heart melt.  “I mean, I’m not too keen on dating myself.”

And Harry can grasp that; it makes sense now.  “You sure you don’t fancy her?” he asks, his voice small.  “I mean, you’d tell me if you fancied her, right?  I mean, because we’re mates and all.”

“So very sure,” Zayn says softly, “and yes, I’d tell you.”  He sighs and stretches out on the bed.  “I almost wish I was…in love with Cal, I mean,” he muses, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold the secrets of the universe.  “Fuck, it would be so easy if I were in love with her.”

Harry’s heart drops.  _Because she’s in love with you._   _Because she’s a girl and you like girls.  Because you two are perfect for each other._ “Why?” he manages to scratch out even though he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“Because she’s…one of my kind.”

Harry hasn’t a clue what he means by that.  ‘ _One of my kind’_...he turns the phrase over and over again in his head but comes up with nothing.  He’s about to ask a follow-up when Zayn suddenly jumps off the bed and bullets towards the open bedroom door.  “Gonna go take a shower,” he mumbles behind him.  A door shuts down the hall and then Harry’s left alone with his thoughts.

It’s a full five minutes later before he realises he’s still sitting on Zayn’s bed.  It takes another five minutes before he actually does something about it.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Harry!” 

Harry halts mid-stride and swivels around.  He stares blankly because he wasn’t expecting to see someone he knew in this wing of the infirmary, let alone _her_.

“I’m Calyx, a friend of Zayn’s?” she shares as if Harry might be likely to forget one of the most unique people he’s ever met in his life.  She looks just as stunning today—flawless mocha skin, brunette hair, ripped fishnets, combat boots, denim shorts, and a men’s dress shirt he bet belongs to Louis.    

He forces a smile, and she relaxes a little, slides the camouflage backpack she’s carrying off her shoulder.  “I think we go’ off on the wrong foot, but ah’d love tae start again.”  She thrusts out her hand like a peace offering.  Not really knowing what else to do, Harry shakes it.  Her hand’s quite cool, and It reminds him of how cold Zayn’s hands always are.

Seeming to read Harry’s mind, she withdraws her hand and gives a little, silvery laugh as she rubs her hands together to create some friction.  “Dinnae ken why hospitals are always so bloody cold.”

“To discourage bacteria and other germs,” Harry parrots back.

“Aye,” she smiles, “sure yer right there.”  Harry’s sure he is, too.  He’s also sure she’s got the whitest teeth he’s ever seen paired with the reddest lipstick he’s ever laid eyes on.  “Ah almost forgot—Zayn said yer studying medicine.”

“Veterinary medicine,” Harry corrects.

“That’s right.  Well, ah was gaun tae ask if ye wanted tae get a coffee sometime?  Zayn’s said some lovely things aboot ya, an’ ah was hoping tae see wit all the fuss is aboot.”

“You want to get a coffee with _me_?”

“Aye…an’ with Zayn, of course.  Thought it might be better askin’ ye, though, since Zayn isnae always the best at relaying these kinds of messages.”  She winks at him, her lips quirked in a crooked smile.  “So wit do ya say?”

“Um…yeah, that sounds nice,” Harry offers in return and maybe it does now that he’s thinking about it.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get to know the people close to Zayn even if he’s still a little unsure about her. 

“Well, it was brilliant running intae ya,” Cal chirps happily, slinging her bulging camouflage backpack up on her shoulders again.  Harry’s wondering what the she’s got in there, but it’s not like he’s going to ask.  “Tell Zayn ah said ‘hullo.’”

Harry does just that later.  He makes the huge mistake of thinking it’s something he can casually announce.  He didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, him running into Cal.

He thought wrong.

Zayn’s eyes narrow to slits.  “You fucking saw Cal where?”

“At the Royal Infirmary,” Harry repeats.  “I guess she had an appointment or something.”

“Not likely,” Zayn scowls, and Harry can’t even begin to figure out what he means by that.  “But what were _you_ doing there anyway?  I thought you were supposed to work with animals, not people.”

“They do overlap sometimes,” Harry huffs, and Zayn accepts it easily.  Harry’s starting to regret having mentioned anything about anything now.  Zayn doesn’t press him further though.  Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry.

“So about Cal…did she do anything?  Act weird?  Look at you funny?”  Zayn bangs out the questions one after another, and Harry suspects he would have been a fierce crown prosecutor.  “Did you feel…any different after?”

“Different?”

“Yeah, did you feel, like, forced into saying yes to her?”

“What in the world are you driving at?” Harry demands but Zayn stays mum, making Harry’s blood boil.  “Why is it you don’t want me to see your friends?  I introduced you to my mates right from the start if you remember.”

Zayn eyes darken.  “Just don’t, okay?  I don’t want you around my mates if I’m not there—I don’t care if it’s just Cal.  Do you understand?”

“You think just because we’re flatmates you get the right to tell me what to do, who to see?  I don’t bloody think so, Zayn.”

Cold fingers grip onto his wrist as Harry glares back at fiery eyes.  “Don’t try me, Harry.  I’m dead serious about this.”

Harry almost backs down—that’s how strong Zayn exerts his will.  At the last second, he finds his courage again and wrests his arm away from the other boy’s grasp.  He looks down in surprise to see marks on his arms.  There are going to be bruises there tomorrow—and not the good kind, not the kind he wants Zayn to litter his skin with. 

Zayn breaks out of his trance when he sees what he’s done.  “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Harry.  I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s what they all say,” Harry spits out because he’s upset now, and he’s got every right to be.  Maybe it wasn’t fair to make it seem like Zayn has a pattern of physically harming him when that’s simply not true.  On the other hand, Zayn’s being a total bell-end right now, and Harry wants him to realise that.

Zayn hangs his head, doesn’t even try to defend himself.  (He doesn’t apologise either though.)

“Look,” Harry says at last, “I promised Liam I’d help him out at the shelter for a couple of hours this afternoon.  I hope you’re in a better mood when I get back.” _…And not a creepy, controlling freak_ , he wants to add. 

“We’ll talk about this later then,” Zayn says, making it clear that he isn’t about to drop the issue or budge from his earlier position.

 

**\+ + +**

 

They don’t though (discuss the topic later).  Zayn comes down with some sort of bug the next day, and Harry’s not really surprised.  He should’ve seen it coming with how irritable he’d been during their last real conversation.

Whereas Harry’s former flatmate would lay on the couch when he was sick, complaining to everyone within hearing distance about how miserable he felt, Zayn hides away.  He holes himself up in his room, hardly leaving its sanctuary (and never when Harry’s at home).  Zayn refuses to even open his bedroom door when Harry offers to make him some homemade soup.  He won’t let Harry take his temperature or change his linens or anything.  He finally accepts the bottle of water and soda crackers because Harry absolutely refused to budge from the locked door if he didn’t. 

That was three days ago.

Yet, when Harry listens through the door, he doesn’t hear any of the tell-tale signs of illness.  Zayn isn’t coughing.  He isn’t sneezing.  He isn’t vomiting.  He didn’t seem to be feverish from the brief interactions he had with him prior to his self-internment.  He did, however, look paler.  His face was haggard—eyes dulled and skin tight. 

Harry feels an overwhelming sense of relief when there’s a knock at the front door the next day, and a red-headed Cal is standing before him.  He doubts she’ll be able to do much, but at least he’ll have someone to talk to who knows Zayn, and it’s better than lying about how worried he is to Liam and Niall.  (Although he’s relieved to discover from Niall that Zayn’s called in for the two shifts he’s missed; it’s got to be a good sign that he’s at least semi-conscious in there.)

“Hullo, Harry.  Where’s yer flatmate?”

Harry’s about to answer when George comes shooting out of Harry’s bedroom and runs in front of him, howling and barking at the girl who’s trying to enter.

“George, stop!” he scolds, embarrassed because his dog is better trained than this.  “I’m sorry about George.  He’s not usually like this, I promise.”

“Nah, it’s fine.  Ah was expecting that,” Cal tells him, and Harry has to scratch his head at that.  Harry orders the beagle to his shame corner, and the dog doesn’t budge, just keeps staring distrustfully at Cal like she’s about to murder them all or something equally ridiculous.

“George, _now_ , or you won’t get a treat after supper.”  Reluctantly, the dog edges away until he’s disappeared into Harry’s bedroom.

Cal starts towards Zayn’s door.  “This is it, eh?”

“Yeah, he won’t let you in though.  I’ve been trying to get him to open the door for four days now.”

Cal crosses her arms against her chest and hums.  “Well, he’ll want tae open the fucking door for me, or ah’ll bash it in.”  She pounds five times on the door in rhythm, and Harry wonders if it’s a secret knock between them. 

“Cal?” Zayn groans through the door, voice strained.  “Go away.”

“Fine, ah’ll go, ya dunderheed!” Cal calls angrily.  “Aye, ah’ll leave an’ just return with Lou then.  He’s been wanting tae visit ya onyway.”

“Fuck off.”

Cal’s nostrils flare and she drops her backpack—the same one Harry saw her carrying the other day.  “Listen, hen,” she tries again, voice a little sweeter.  “Ah’ve go’ some”—she glances at Harry—“supplies for ya.  Remember ya texted me last night, eh?  Ah couldnae get oot before, if ya ken what ah mean.”

A moment later, they hear the door unlock, but it doesn’t open.

“Finally,” Cal exhales.  She heaves her camouflage bag up on her shoulders again, then enters the room.  Harry follows behind her quietly, delighted that Zayn is willing to see people again.

Cal walks purposely towards the bed where Zayn is lying, cheeks hollowed.  His pallor is almost an ashen colour now, and it contrasts sharply with his dark beard and dishevelled hair.  His eyes are sunken and lifeless, and Harry can’t believe that this is the same boy he’s known for months.  Zayn doesn’t pay any attention to them as they enter, his gaze rests firmly on the camouflage backpack, follows it as Cal places it on the bed by his feet.  His skin seems to prickle with goose pimples, and he licks his dry, chapped lips.

Harry gingerly takes a couple of steps forward.  Suddenly, Zayn’s eyes widen with a wildness that’s frightening, and his whole body convulses.  He seems to regain some control of himself immediately after, biceps bulging and arms strained as his hands form into tight fists.  “The fuck, Cal?!” Zayn growls, opening his eyes to look past her to where Harry is standing awkwardly.

“Crap, ah wisnae thinking,” Cal apologises.  She hurries to where Harry is standing and wheels him backwards.  “It’s best if ye wait outwith—the, uh, farther away the better.”

“But—”

“Cheers, hen,” Cal says before all but slamming the door in his face.  The lock clicks, and Harry isn’t even surprised.

 

**\+ + +**

“My money’s on drugs,” Niall states matter-of-factly after hearing Harry’s watered-down version of what happened with Cal and Zayn.  “Fuck me, this Calyx chick even said she had ‘supplies’ for him, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry acknowledges, “I thought that was strange, but I don’t think he’s on drugs.”

“Well, either that, or he’s fucking this Calyx chick,” Niall allows, and that option’s not much more palatable than the first if Harry’s honest.  “I’ll just say if he _is_ on drugs, then he’s savage good at hiding it.”

“He’s hiding _something_ ,” is Liam’s verdict.  His friend doesn’t look too happy about it either. 

“He said he’d had flu,” Harry says weakly.  “I’m sure that’s all it was actually.”

“How’s he doing now?” Liam inquires, brown eyes brimming with concern, apparently not completely on board with Niall’s wild theories (but not openly dismissing them either).

Harry shakes his head.  “He looks great, like he wasn’t even sick at all.  It’s…it’s bizarre.  It’s like his system bounces back so quickly from major setbacks.”  He thinks back to when the contusion and bruises Zayn received that night at the club all-but disappeared overnight.  He’s never specifically mentioned that, though, because he doesn’t want people to think he’s gone mad because he hasn’t.  (Not yet.)

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Liam says encouragingly.  “I mean, if he appears healthy again, I wouldn’t bother about it too much.”  He pokes Niall next to him.  “Just think about how pissy this one gets when he’s sick.  Everyone’s off when they’re under the weather and maybe Zayn just didn’t want you to see that side of him, see him any less than at his best.”

“I suppose,” Harry allows, trying to ignore the headache he feels coming on again.

“Yeah,” Niall nods furiously, “bet Payno’s on to something.  Bet Zayn’s completely fallen for you, and he’s been off his bleedin’ head trying to conceal it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry scoffs.  His mind betrays him, however, takes him back to the few moments of pure electricity they shared—moments when he was so close to knowing the feel of Zayn’s lips on his that it was almost painful to think about them in retrospect.  “Zayn doesn’t feel that way about me.  At all.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?  _Recently_?” Liam demands and Harry wonders if his friend can see inside his brain, can see the scenes replaying in his head on a loop.  “Because if you haven’t, I definitely would—for both of your sakes.”

“And for both of _our_ sanities,” Niall grunts.

 

**\+ + +**

 

They’ve started sleeping together on a regular basis (emphasis on the word ‘sleeping’ meaning just that).  Harry’s not exactly sure how it happened although he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.  Ever. 

He doesn’t mention anything to Niall or Liam because they wouldn’t understand.  They wouldn’t understand that Harry’s okay with the current arrangement, that he can handle it…mostly anyways.

Because some nights he thinks it’s more than he can take, lying curled next to Zayn, two duvets covering them because of Zayn’s naff circulation.  (The boy’s always freezing even when he insists he’s not, and arryHHarry can’t remember how many times he’s told Zayn to visit a rheumatologist by this point.  Zayn argues that all he needs is Harry to keep him warm, and that _does_ something to Harry—whether he’ll admit it to Zayn or not.)

It began the first day of spring when Zayn had a nightmare (again) and Harry couldn’t sleep (again).  After he heard the strangled, cut-off scream in the next room, Harry sprinted to Zayn’s door in a breathless hurry. 

He can still picture the scene as if it were yesterday:

 

_Harry’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he flings open Zayn’s door, but it certainly isn’t his flatmate sitting calmly in a chair by an opened window as moonlight and the cool night air wafts in.  Harry stares at him dumbfounded for a moment before he notices the cigarette between Zayn’s lips as beautiful, sinewy hands endeavour to light it._

_“I didn’t know you smoked.”_

_“I don’t really…I quit.  Years ago,” Zayn explains after removing the cigarette from his mouth._

_“But weren’t you just…?”_

_“I always keep some around, just in case.”  Zayn’s hands wobble as he replaces the cigarette in a sleek, silver cigarette case, snapping it shut.  It resembles a piece you’d see on Antiques Roadshow, Harry thinks.  The way the moonlight reflects off it is almost hypnotising._

_“Nice case,” Harry can’t help but comment, stepping closer to get a better look.  There’s a striped design and an ornately-scripted monogram in the centre.  “Looks expensive.”_

_“It was a going away present.”  Zayn’s voice catches a little—or maybe it’s just Harry’s imagination.  Headlamps from a lorry pass and Harry gets a good look at the case.  He can read the monogram now:  ZJM.  It perplexes him because Zayn’s initials should be ZB or Z?B.  There’s something about the letters ‘ZJM’ that make Harry think he’s forgetting something important.  He probably is, but he’s not going to worry about it.  It’ll come to him eventually if he doesn’t think about it too hard.  These things always do._

_Harry looks back up at Zayn to read an internal struggle in the other boy’s eyes._

_“Would you mind if I had one actually?  I can smoke out the window if it bothers you.  My nerves are shot.”_

_Harry nods and Zayn quickly removes a cigarette again.  He’s got the same problem as last time though.  He keeps flicking the switch on the lighter, but it won’t light.  Zayn’s cursing at it as Harry approaches, rests his hand on Zayn’s cool wrist before taking the lighter from him.  He gets it on the first try and Zayn leans in to let him light the end of the cigarette.  There’s a spark before the paper starts to burn, as their eyes meet in a moment of complete intimacy, and Harry can’t help if his hand lingers too long (and his gaze, even longer)._

_Zayn takes a drag and blows the smoke out the window.  His eyes seem to watch it with fascination as it drifts away into the night._

_“It’s not good for you, you know.”_

_Zayn seems unimpressed.  “There are a lot of things that aren’t good for you, Harry.”_

_Harry swallows.  There’s a hollowness to Zayn’s voice that gives him the chills.  “Such as…?”_

_Zayn pretends he doesn’t hear, just studies the view out the window like it’s more interesting than it is:  back alleyways, dingy rooftops, and rain-stained buildings.  He continues to smoke in silence and Harry continues to watch him smoke in silence._

_“You should go,” he finally says, putting the cigarette out on an old saucer that Harry resolves never to use again._

_“I could stay…if you want company, I mean.”_

_Zayn looks torn.  “Yeah, okay.  Just this once.”_

 

But it isn’t just that once.  Not by a longshot.

It’s the first of many nights where even though they start out on opposite sides of the bed, it isn’t long before their bodies find each other in the lonely solitude.  They wake up tangled together—sometimes in Zayn’s bed, sometimes in Harry’s—but always together. 

They don’t mention it during the daytime either.  It’s a taboo subject, like anything brought up during an IC meeting.  And Harry’s okay with that.  Mostly.

It’s only sometimes when he lets his mind drift, when he imagines what it would be like to have more than mutually-beneficial sleeping arrangements with the man he’s fallen in love with.  Then, he recalls Zayn’s words:

_“There are a lot of things that aren’t good for you, Harry.”_

On top of that list, Harry suspects, is fantasising about things that could never happen.  Things like Zayn falling for him in return.

So he doesn’t.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Harry shifts restlessly and Zayn stirs as they’re lying in bed one night.

“Can’t sleep?” Zayn questions groggily, rolling over to face him. 

“Yeah,” Harry acknowledges, trying not to think about how close Zayn’s lips are to his now.  “Sorry if I woke you.”

“S’okay.  What were you thinking about?”

“How do you know I was thinking about anything?”

Zayn regards him shrewdly, and Harry searches his mind for something safe to talk about.  “Louis and Cal.  Were they friends of yours from before?”

Zayn grunts unhappily.  “Yeah, guess you could say that.”

Harry thinks back to what Louis said about Zayn still holding a grudge.  “When did you and Louis fall out?”

“A long time ago,” Zayn tells him, eyes distant in the dim light.  “A _very_ long time ago.”

“What about Cal?”

“No, that was more recent.  I guess I more shut her out than anything,” Zayn admits after some consideration.  “She actually met Louis through me.  Never proper apologised for that.”

“You really don’t like him, huh?”

Zayn’s brow hitches.  “Well, I mean…you met him.”

Harry can’t argue with Zayn’s point there.  Harry met Louis once and frankly, once was enough for him.  “Well, you said you two were mates at some point so.”

“Yeah, best mates.”  Zayn screws his eyes closed.  “Like I said, it was a long, long time ago.”

They’re quiet then, the only sound coming from a passing motorist.  It dissipates, and they’re left with a tense silence again.  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thank you.”

“I figure you’ll tell me in your own time; maybe right now isn’t the time.  I’m not going to push you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Zayn whispers in his ear, crawling closer to steal some of his heat and most of the duvet. 

A short while later, he hears Zayn’s steady breathing but still Harry can’t sleep—not even with Zayn lying next to him.  He’s still awake when Zayn bolts up suddenly, a scream dying in his throat.

“You’re alright,” Harry coaxes, sitting up with him.  Zayn’s still shaking violently, and Harry wishes he could do more.  “Nightmare?”  He re-situates himself to massage Zayn’s neck and shoulders.  He can feel the tension radiating off the older boy from a foot away.

“Yeah, same one,” Zayn divulges in a rare moment of openness.  “It’s always the same one.”  Zayn doesn’t offer anymore though, just relaxes into Harry’s touch as he always does. 

“Wish I could make it go away,” Harry murmurs into the back of his neck, his lips brushing against Zayn’s skin.

“You do.  They don’t come as frequently when you’re here.”

Harry rests his forehead on Zayn’s shoulder.  “Then I’ll always be here,” he promises.  He knows it’s one he can’t keep, but it feels right in the moment, just as placing a soft kiss on the back of Zayn’s neck feels right in the moment.

Zayn goes rigid, however, as soon as Harry’s lips touch his skin.  “Goodnight, Harry,” he states abruptly, immediately pulling away.  He pulls the duvet up to his chin and lies facing the wall. 

There’s a space in the bed between them that night that feels more like a chasm.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn drinks so much the next night Harry’s honestly shocked he isn’t lying flat on the floorboards by now.  Niall’s impressed that Zayn can hold his liquor, says he drinks ‘like a fish in the River Shannon’ and other things that make Harry feel like his eyes are going to roll back into his head and stay there.  But really, Niall does have a valid point:  Zayn’s drinking them all under the table.  It’s doubly hard to believe considering he’s got to weigh less than all of them and Harry hasn’t seen him eat in hours.  It’s another piece of the “Zayn Mystery Puzzle” that Harry will never hope to solve.  Eventually, after Harry loses count, Zayn begins to show signs of being more than a little tipsy.

Harry’s not exactly sober either, and Niall’s looking at him like he should be switching to water soon so he does.  It’s a bit of a double standard, Harry thinks, because both Niall and their current bartender (a burly ginger with a Glasgow accent) seems nowhere near cutting Zayn or Liam off, both of whom have had more to drink than him.

_Whatever._

One change Harry _does_ detect in Zayn is that he seems much more garrulous and much less guarded the more he drinks.  It’s an interesting development, one that Harry can’t help but guiltily appreciate.  Zayn natters on and on about growing up in Bradford (although he’s still reticent about details).  He speaks of happy times with his family, but then in the next breath, admits he doesn’t speak with his family anymore because of a ‘falling out.’  He grows a bit pensive then, and Harry wonders how much more there is to that particular story. 

Zayn even offhandedly mentions an ex-girlfriend once.  That gets everyone’s attention because Zayn _never_ talks about his love life.

“What about that bird you were seeing back when you were living in halls?” Niall inquires, and Harry tries not to look too surprised (or God forbid, upset).  “Brannon here came into work with lipstick on his collar, you might say,” Niall explains to the other boys at the table.

“Told you that was nothing, Niall,” Zayn grumbles.  “I told you I wasn’t interested in her, in _any_ girl for that matter.”

“Or any boy,” Liam adds helpfully with a wink but Zayn just hums in return.  Neither of the other lads pick up on Zayn's curious noncommittal response or the way his hazel eyes dart towards Harry before returning to Liam.

But Harry does.

In fact, it’s all Harry can think about the rest of the night.  It’s the only thing on his mind during the cab ride back to their shared flat in the wee small hours of the morning.  It’s the first thing he asks as soon as they’re alone because Harry can’t keep reading more than he should into Zayn’s every glance, his every gesture, his every word.  He just can’t.

“Zayn, were you lying to me when you said you weren’t attracted to guys?”

Zayn gives him a withering look, then starts towards his room.  “I’m not going to have this discussion with you now, not when we both have alcohol in our systems.”

“I haven’t had a drink in hours, and you seem buzzed at best.  Stop making excuses.”  And maybe, deep down, Harry knows Zayn has a point, but he can’t wait any longer for answers.  “So did you or did you not lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie to you, Harry.”

“So you’re not attracted to guys then?” Harry prods, hot on his heels, as the other boy switches on his bedside lamp.

“I’m knackered, Harry,” Zayn protests as he collapses onto his bed, boots and all.  “But just to get the record straight, I never said I wasn’t into dudes.  You just inferred it.”

“You _let_ me infer it!” Harry counters, voice rising because he’s not going to let Zayn blame this on him.

“Maybe, I did,” Zayn sighs.  “Maybe I thought it was easier that way.”

Zayn’s words cut deep.  Harry’s probably known it all along, that he wasn’t good enough for Zayn, but it still doesn’t stop the hurt.  He stands there pathetically even though he knows he should run from this room as fast as his legs will carry him and never look back.  But something inside him insists on knowing more.  He needs to know _why._

“So…it’s just me then,” Harry mumbles, feeling like he’s just been kicked in the gut.  “I’m just not good enough.”  Zayn’s right—it’s probably the last effects of alcohol talking at this point, but he can’t plug it up even though he’s sure he’ll cringe at every memory of this night tomorrow morning. 

Zayn’s eyes shoot open at that.  He sits up and grabs Harry’s hand, pulls him down onto the bed next to him.  Then, Zayn’s palms are pressed firmly to his cheeks.  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Harry.  You’re…you’re the most fucking perfect human being I’ve ever met.  How can you not see that?  Don’t ever fucking say that again.  Don’t even fucking _think_ that, alright?”

Harry pushes him away and wipes his eyes.  He wishes he wasn’t so weak, wishes he could believe Zayn, but the voice of his insecurities still nags at him.  He’s not good enough.  Never will be.

He lifts his head to tell Zayn he’s so so wrong, but he doesn’t have a chance because Zayn’s lips crash against his.  They’re needy and that’s alright because Harry’s got more than enough to give in return.  It isn’t how Harry imagined their first kiss (whenever he dared to anyway) because it isn’t sweet and tentative.  It’s desperate and frantic, all teeth and tongue as Zayn pins him down against the mattress and kisses him hard until Harry can barely breathe anymore, until he’s gasping for air.

Zayn takes the opportunity to kick off his shoes.  He crawls further up the bed, following Harry’s rushed movements.  Then Zayn’s lips are on his again, and Harry can savour them this time, taste the hints of tobacco, patchouli, and leather.  It’s indescribable—the feel of Zayn’s lips against his, the way Zayn’s fingers thread though his hair.  Zayn moans into Harry’s mouth wantonly, bucking against him until Harry’s sure he’s going to lose his mind if this doesn’t progress into something more and quickly. 

Then, the older boy is sliding his swollen lips down, mouthing hungrily at a sweet spot at the crook of Harry’s neck, one his muscle memory must have recalled from that day Harry cut himself shaving.  Harry feels Zayn’s nails dig into his shoulder blades and wishes he could see the half-moon marks they leave behind, wishes Zayn would mark him up completely.  Zayn seems to know what Harry’s thinking because he sucks harder at the tender spot until a needy sound escapes Harry’s lips.

And then, abruptly, it all stops.

Well, almost anyway, because Harry’s still panting as Zayn rolls off him.  Harry sits up when he can.  He’s fully clothed but he’s never felt this vulnerable and exposed in his life as he peers questioningly down at the boy beside him.

“Fuck,” Zayn groans, quaking as he covers his face with his hands. _“Fuck!”_

“You alright?”

“I’m so sorry,” is the muffled response he gets in return.  “I’m so fucking sorry, Harry.”

“Don’t be,” Harry tells him, trying to remove Zayn’s hands from his face, but he can’t.  Despite appearances, the other boy’s probably twice as strong as him…and at least twice as stubborn. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Zayn repeats, and Harry’s still not sure what he’s apologising for—stopping or something else.

“Don’t be sorry…just…kiss me, Zayn.”

Zayn removes his hands and his eyes look so lost and so guilty.  “I can’t, Harry.”

“You don’t want this, Zayn?” Harry presses even though he shouldn’t, even though he knows he’s getting into dangerous, ‘point of no return’ territory here.  “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll leave you alone.  I’ll go back to my own bedroom, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”  Harry waits for Zayn’s answer like he’s never waited for anything in his life.  He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, just waits as his heart hammers away in his chest.

“No, I want you, Harry.”  Behind those feathery lashes, there’s a storm in his eyes.  “Fuck, want you so bad.”

“Then why are you holding back?  Is it because you’ve never been with a man before--is that it?  Wanna take it slow?  I can take it real slow, if that’s what you want,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingers further and further down Zayn’s body.

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn whines, voice thick with lust and reluctance.  “I want to, but I _can’t_.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Harry declares with an exasperated groan.  He’s about to throw it in, to give the whole thing a miss, but then his fingers accidentally brush over the bulge in Zayn’s jeans.  “You can’t?” Harry says more in surprise than anything because he wasn’t expecting Zayn to be so turned on.  “Oh, I think you definitely can.”

He goes to draw his hand back, but then he feels Zayn’s cool hand trapping his.  Zayn closes his eyes and bites his lip as he covers Harry’s hand, locking it firmly in place.  Harry can feel the other boy’s erection pulse against his palm, but it’s not enough.  He slides his hand away and swings a leg over to straddle the older boy as Zayn turns his cheek with a tortured cry.  

“What if I just get us off like this, huh?” Harry offers, grinding his hips in a circular motion.  There’s an eager, frustrated moan coming from Zayn’s lips again, and Harry can’t get over how undone this boy is.  His too-cool-for-school facade is absolutely shattered as Harry leans forward and lightly ruts against him, holding himself up with one arm so that he can see every exquisite expression on Zayn’s face.  “That alright?”

“Don’t know,” Zayn mumbles, eyes hooded.  “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That what you’re afraid of?” Harry scoffs.  “Well, don’t be.”  He’s not exactly certain what Zayn means, but right now, it doesn’t seem to matter.  He’d risk a broken heart—a broken _anything_ —for five minutes like this with Zayn.  They’re dry humping like a couple of teenagers, but damn, he’s almost there just thinking about it.  “Just tell me if it feels good, okay?  Don’t worry about anything else.  Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Zayn decides, sliding his hips upwards quickly and now Harry’s the one reeling in the friction.  “And yeah…it’s so fucking good.”

Afterwards, Harry’s a sweaty mess as he collapses on the boy beneath him.  Luckily, Zayn doesn’t seem to mind as they both drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The significance of the initials ‘ZJM’ hits him when there’s ten minutes gone into a lecture.  Coincidentally, that’s also the last point he pays any attention to what his lecturer is saying.  His knee bounces with anticipation as he anxiously waits to be dismissed.  It seems like it’ll never happen until it does, then he’s dashing out of the lecture hall before the rest of the students can even collect their books.

It doesn’t take long for him to travel the short distance across the Quad.  Soon, he finds himself out of breath but in the corridor he was looking for.  He’s overjoyed to find the photographs are still there, lining the wall on one side.  He hastily finds the one he’s looking for:   _1914_.

He spots Zayn’s doppelganger easily enough:  the boy in the third row, second from the left.  He traces the name with his finger over the cool museum glass:  _Zain J. Malik._

 _ZJM_.

He thinks of the cigarette case, how Zayn told him he got it as a going away present, most likely when he went off to uni.  Zayn never told him if it was a new purchase or a family heirloom though, and clearly, this boy in a century-old photograph must be a relative of his.  The coincidences are too overwhelming to suggest otherwise.

He feels like he’s made a major discovery, gotten some insight into Zayn’s past.  Maybe it’s a tad invasive, this investigative reporting he’s doing, but it’s the only way he’ll ever find out anything about the enigmatic boy’s past.  Besides, Harry’s not going to keep the information to himself at this point.  He’s going to ask Zayn about the boy in the photograph now that he knows there’s a good possibility they’re related somehow—perhaps a maternal great-great something or other.

Harry’s about to depart when a new face catches his eye in the photograph, this one in the last row.  He squints at it and peers closer.  He tries cocking his head to the side to view the photo from a different angle, but it only reinforces his initial supposition, that this boy is the spitting image of Zayn’s mate Louis.  He’s got the same confident smirk, the same light eyes, the same everything.

Harry searches below, slides his finger along the list of names until he matches it up with the one he needs:   _Louis W. Tomlinson_.

He swallows down his unease as his gaze haphazardly lands on _Zain J. Malik_ again.  All of Harry’s neurotransmitters must be firing at full speed because he now makes the vital connection:  _Malik._   That was the name Louis had used when he burst in on them unannounced.  It was the name he used to address Zayn.  Harry’s sure of it.

His mind is reeling as all manner of theories beg for dominance—that the two boys are descendants of the men in the photograph, that someone doctored the photo as a joke, that Harry’s having hallucinations.  Nevertheless, there screams only one logical conclusion through the fog.  It’s too fantastic to consider though. 

He wracks his brain for an alternative solution as his professor’s words ring in his ears:   _“Rely on science, lads and lasses.  It will never let you down.”_   Harry is a student of science after all, so that’s what he’ll do. 

That night, Harry replays every relevant conversation he’s ever had with his flatmate.  He recalls when Zayn told him he was born in Bradford in January, 1993.  There must be some record of that somewhere if he does a little sleuthing.  He’s sure to dig up something if he keeps at it.

But he doesn’t.  After myriad phone calls and google searches, he hasn’t come up with _anything_ on Zayn Brannon.  It’s discouraging because it seems impossible that this brilliant, handsome boy could have gone this long with leaving a digital or physical footprint behind.  Zayn doesn’t have a single social media account and every address or phone number Harry finds turns out to be a bogus listing or other dead end.  The only records Harry does uncover are things he already knows, documents relating to his status as a student at the Edinburgh College of Art and an article from last autumn naming Zayn as a chosen artist to create a sculpture for the opening of some new building. 

It’s clear Zayn didn’t want people to find him because he’s erased almost every trace of evidence of his existence.  It’s almost inconceivable in this day and age.

Zayn seems to suspect that he’s up to something—or maybe it’s just Harry’s guilty conscience.  Harry can feel Zayn’s probing eyes on him whenever he becomes particularly introspective, swears he can feel Zayn looking right through him.  They haven’t spoken about getting off with each other the other night (or had a reprisal, for that matter) so he hopes that’s all it is.  They’ll talk about _that_ eventually.

Right now, though, Harry’s well and focused on Zayn’s secret past.  He supposes it isn’t really fair since Zayn’s not the only one hiding something big.  After all, Harry’s got a secret, too.  Once in a while he feels like it’s going to eat him alive, but most of the time he doesn’t think about it. 

He never thinks about it when he’s with Zayn. 

He wonders if it’s the same with Zayn, if he doesn’t think about whatever he’s hiding when he’s with Harry.  Maybe that’s why they found each other.

And then it’s like a switch goes off in his brain.  He decides then and there to stop searching for answers to questions Zayn’s not ready to tell him.  Zayn will tell him in time.  Harry can wait. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean he can’t search for more information on Zain J. Malik, the boy from the photograph. 

To this end, he finds himself at the library the next day, one of Zayn’s favourite stomping grounds (although all he seems to do lately is sit at the kitchen table staring critically at design sketches and wearing down the rubbers of his pencils).  While he’s wandering about, contemplating where to start, he bumps into a mate of his from the IC club.  Harry shares a few vague details about the information he’s seeking, and Andrew promptly directs him towards a reference librarian who “knows even more about the library catalogue than Zayn does.”

Mary, according to her scratched-up name badge, looks as though she well could have been sitting at that very desk in 1914.  She’s got a stern, weathered look about her, and Harry is hesitant to ask her the time, let alone information on something he’s got no business knowing. 

“Good morning, I was wondering if you could help me find something?”  Harry gives the most charming smile he can muster, and it seems to work because Mary automatically returns the smile.

“What can I help you locate, dear?”

“I…I was doing some research for…for a class,” Harry begins, licking his lips.  He can feel a bead of perspiration on his forehead, and he realises then that he doesn’t really have the stomach for lying to sweet, little old lady librarians.

“Yes, dear?” the elderly woman prompts, no doubt feeling the nervousness radiating off him.

“Well, I came across a name…while I was doing some research, like I said, and I wanted to know if I could find out if the person was an alumnus so um, yeah.”

“That should be doable,” the woman states as surprisingly-nimble fingers fly over keys.  “Do you know the graduation year?”

“1914.”

The old woman’s hands hover over the keyboard before she looks up at Harry.  “1914?  Do you think this person might have served in the War?”

It takes a moment before Harry’s figures out which war she’s referring to, and then he’s wondering why he didn’t think of that before.  “Um, he might have done.  I’ll give you the surname.  It’s Malik, M-A-L-I-K.  First name, Zain.”  He spells the given name as well for good measure.

Mary types for a few more moments, then her soft blue eyes light up excitedly as she brushes a wisp of white hair from her forehead.  “I have a listing here for Zain Javadd Malik, born 1893.  Does that sound right?”

Harry feels like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.  He holds onto the edge of the desk until the dizziness passes, until his head clears and his heart stops pounding.

“You went quite pale there for a moment—are you alright, dear?  Perhaps, you should have a seat.”  She waves to a chair a few feet away.

“Sorry, I was just excited that you found it, that’s all,” he fibs.  He doesn’t dare tell her that it’s the date that nearly made him faint dead away.  Zayn had told Harry he was born in ‘93.  He hadn’t said the century, but Harry, of course, just inferred it was _19_ 93, not bloody _18_ 93.

Harry reminds himself that it’s not possible for someone born in 1893 to still be living because apparently that fact has slipped his mind.  And even if it were, they wouldn’t look as young as Zayn does.  There is a scientific explanation for all of these coincidences. 

There has to be.

He thanks the librarian, then finds a corner that’s nearly secluded.  He chooses a computer station underneath a dodgy light that blinks intermittently, bringing an ominous vibe to his pursuit.  It only takes a moment to bring up the database he needs:  _University of Edinburgh Roll of Honour, WWI._   He finds the page he’s looking for, then clicks on the name to pull up the entry:

 

 

 

> **_Malik, Zain Javadd_ **
> 
> **_Description:_ ** _Student of Arts, 1911-14; M.A. (Hons. Engl.), 6th York and Lancaster Regiment. 2nd Lieut., Missing, presumed killed at Ypres, Belgium on 8th May 1915._
> 
> **_Date of birth:_ ** _1893_
> 
> **_Date of death:_ ** _1915_

 

It’s definitely the boy in the photograph because the graduation dates are bang on.  He pauses, stares at the screen with an ache in his chest when he realises that the boy died just one year after the photograph hanging in the Old College was taken.  He feels something akin to grief for the boy he never met, this boy who had his life stolen from him before it really began.  Harry does a quick calculation in his head and discovers the soldier was probably 22 when he went missing on the battlefield.  He had a family, and friends, and hopes and dreams, no doubt.

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to hold back the strange tide of emotions he’s feeling.  After all, he can’t change the past (or the future for that matter, but he’s not gonna go there, not when he’s just managed to pull himself together).

On impulse, he decides to search for the name of the other familiar face in the graduation photo—Louis W. Tomlinson.  He finds something that appears probable and opens that entry, his fingers tingling with anticipation:

 

 

 

> **_Tomlinson, Louis William_ **
> 
> **_Description:_ ** _Athletics; Student of Arts, 1911-14, 6th York and Lancaster Regiment. 2nd Lieut., Missing, presumed killed at Ypres, Belgium on 8th May 1915._
> 
> **_Date of birth:_ ** _1891_
> 
> **_Date of death:_ ** _1915_

 

He can’t believe the similarities in the two entries.  They contain the same programme dates, the same rank and regiment.  Both went missing at Ypres on the same day.  And, most importantly, they look like people Harry _knows_.

Harry feels like he’s about to hyperventilate as his brain frantically searches for a scientific explanation.  The only thing he seems to hit upon, the only thing that seems of any use, is Occam’s Razor, the principle that the simplest explanation is most often the correct one.

And the simplest explanation, as crazy as it sounds, is that Zain Javadd Malik and Zayn Brannon are one and the same person. 

“I think it’s time we had a talk, don’t you?”

Harry can’t help the gasp that leaves his lips when he hears the familiar voice.  His heart leaps into his throat as he swiftly exits out of the open window on the computer screen.  When he’s wiped out all traces of his search, he whirls around to face Zayn, but he almost doesn’t recognise his ‘friend.’  The other boy’s jaw is set, and his eyes blaze with an emotion Harry’s never seen in them before.

“I’m not sure w-what you mean,” Harry stammers, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Not here,” Zayn murmurs, eyes flicking over the very public space they’re in.  “At the flat.”

“You know,” Harry swallows, “I’m good.  I don’t need to know…whatever it is you were going to tell me.”  He stumbles to his feet and bumps into the boy who is severely invading his space at the moment.  “Oh, and I forgot to mention that I’m, uh, staying at Liam’s for the next few days.  Maybe a week.  Maybe longer.  He needs help with…something.”

Zayn narrows his eyes, but Harry doesn’t give him time to respond, just pushes past him and dashes for the exit.  He takes the stairs two at a time and somehow manages not to fall down the last flight when his heel catches on the second step.

He feels the utmost relief when he exits through the front doors, the sun shining down on him like he’s made it, like he’s safe…

Except he’s not.

Zayn’s standing next to the entrance, leaning against the building like he’s been waiting for Harry for the past half hour.  He’s wearing a pair of dark shades now and there’s a bag slung over his shoulder, the one Harry left behind in his hurry to get away from him. 

“You…you couldn’t have passed me on the stairs,” Harry pants, backing against the side of the building.  “I would have seen you!”

“I took the back way,” Zayn says smoothly as if it’s a reasonable explanation (which it bloody isn’t).  Zayn crosses in front of him like a lion cornering his prey, flinging the bag at Harry’s feet.  The sun is high in the sky behind him, and Harry has to squint to look at the other boy.  “It’s useless, you realise, to run from me, Harry.”  There’s a darkness to his voice that makes Harry shiver despite the warmness of the day. 

Harry slides down to a squat, his eyes scanning the ground listlessly as if it might offer guidance.  That’s when he sees it—or rather, _doesn’t_ see it.  “You…you don’t have a shadow,” Harry gulps, feeling as if he’s about to faint for the second time in twenty minutes. 

“Like I said, it’s about time we talked.”

Harry accepts whatever crazy fates are at work and pushes off the wall with the back of his heel.  He’s still terrified, still feels shaky, but he can see no way out of this except the one Zayn’s offered—even if it means he’ll have to be alone with…with this _thing._   “Fine, let’s talk.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

“I’m a vampire.” 

They’re sat across from each other at the kitchen table when Zayn drops the bombshell.  Zayn’s fingers lace together as he calmly waits for Harry’s reaction to his admission.  He doesn’t blink at all, and Harry wonders if this is a new thing or just something else he has failed to notice.  An outside observer might think they were discussing something as mundane as the monthly bills—that is, if Harry didn’t have a complete freak-out moment at that very second.

“Stop taking the piss, Zayn; this is serious.  I need some answers because you don’t even want to know what I’m thinking right now!”

Zayn gazes heavenward.  “Why do they always react this way?”

“Stop it!  You can bugger off if you’re going to act like that.”  He glares at Zayn, but the other boy appears indifferent to his threats.  “You can start, if you don’t mind, with explaining why the bloody hell you were following me!”

Zayn sighs. “I wasn’t following you, Harry.”

“Well, that’s interesting because I’m pretty sure you were breathing down my neck while I was in the library not even a half hour ago.”

“Look, I was already in the library, searching for a couple of books in the art section.  I overheard you asking Mary about records of graduates from 1914 and got suspicious, okay?”

Harry studies him for a long moment before narrowing his eyes.  “How’d you overhear us if you were clear on the other side of room?”

Zayn taps his ears like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  “Vampire hearing.  Duh.”

“Okay, so you say you’re a vampire,” Harry remarks, folding his arms across his chest.  “So prove it then.”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for parlour tricks, Harry, if that’s what you’re wanting.  I’m a vampire, and you’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”  He presses his palms flat against the surface of the table, his long fingers splayed and decorated with an assortment of rings… _silver_ rings.

“Why are you wearing silver then?” Harry demands, jumping up.  He starts pacing back and forth as new ideas come to him.  “And…and you go out in the daytime—even if you don’t like to—and I just made garlic pasta the other day!  Oh, and you may not have a shadow, but you definitely have a reflection.”  He snaps his fingers because he’s definitely onto something now.  “Now that I think about it, the sun _was_ quite high in the sky earlier so maybe your shadow was so small I didn’t—

“I hate to break it to you, but I haven’t got a shadow.”

“But that’s impossible!” Harry protests.  “Someone would’ve noticed!”

Zayn snorts.  “I’m careful when I’m out in daylight, but really, you’d be amazed at how unobservant people are about such things as a general rule.”

Harry goes back to pacing because he has to figure this out.  There _has_ to be explanation for all of it.

“Stop, you’re making me dizzy, Haz.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry snaps, gripping the back of a chair so hard his knuckles turn white.  “You’ve no right to call me that when I don’t even know who you are.  I don’t know if you’re Zayn with a ‘y’ or an ‘i.’  I don’t know if your last name’s Brannon or Malik, and I don’t know if I can believe a single bloody syllable you’ve told me since we met!”  Harry bites back his swelling emotions because he is _not_ going to have a breakdown right now.  No freaking way.

Zayn hangs his head and that pulls at Harry’s heartstrings even though it shouldn’t.  When Zayn finally lifts it back up, his eyes are dull but his expression is full of resolve.  “That first night you found me,” Zayn begins hoarsely, “I was suffering from not, er, feeding.  You saved me when you cut your lip.” 

Harry notices again how pale this boy is, how pale he’s always been.  “Go on,” he rasps out.

“Remember how you wanted to take me to hospital, but I wouldn’t let you?  Remember when you took my temperature, and it wasn’t anywhere near the normal 37 degrees?  Well, now you know why.”

Harry inhales sharply as it all hits him at once.  “Oh my God.”

“You should sit down,” Zayn suggests, worry creasing his brow.

“No…no, I’m going to have a lie down, I think,” Harry answers unsteadily.  “I…I need time to process.”

“Would it be better if I left?”

Harry wants to scream at the clueless boy in front of him that _nothing’s_ better when he leaves, but Harry’s tired of yelling.  He’s tired of fighting.  He’s tired of thinking.  He’s tired of everything.

But mostly, he’s just plain tired.

He settles on shaking his head back and forth before going to his bedroom.  George scrambles up on the bed as soon as he’s lying down and nuzzles his wet nose against Harry’s cheek affectionately.

“You knew there was something off with him from the first, didn’t you, George?”  The beagle just gazes back at him sadly with big hazel eyes before plopping down next to him for a long kip.

 

**\+ + +**

 

When Harry awakes, it’s late afternoon, and he’s feeling considerably better.  He’s in a state where he can handle whatever it is that Zayn has to tell him—no matter how fantastical (or terrible) it may be.

Zayn’s at the kitchen table, and Harry wonders if he’s been there the whole time.  He’s leaning on his elbows, forehead resting on tightly clasped hands as if in prayer.  Harry’s almost loath to disturb him, but it’s a needless worry for as soon as he steps into the room, Zayn lifts his head, eyes bleary and blinking.

“Who are you?” Harry asks calmly.  He feels as though he should be afraid, but he’s not.

“You know who I am.”

Harry closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.  “Yes…yes, I do.”  When he’s ready, he reopens his eyes with purpose and walks to the table.  This time, he takes the seat next to his flatmate.   

“My name is Zain Javadd Malik,” Zayn recites like they’re meeting for the first time, “and I was born in Bradford on 12 January 1893—but I guess you already figured that out, didn’t you?”

Harry bites back his incredulity once again.  “Yeah, I spotted you in an old photograph hanging in the Old College a while back.  Then later, I saw your cigarette case with your true initials engraved on it.  Still, it took me a while to realise the initials matched those from the photograph—until this morning, in fact.  I went back to check the photograph again to make sure, and that’s when I saw Louis.”

“I see.  Yes, Louis and I were at uni together,” Zayn confirms.  “He was a vampire even back then, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

“And the cigarette case was given to you before you left for uni?”

“No, it was a present when I graduated from university.  I was so annoyed at my dad, at all of them, because I knew it was more than they could afford.”

Harry scrunches up his nose.  “I thought you said it was a going away present before?”

“Well, yes—it was both.  I was going off to war, and they wanted to give me something I could take with me.”  Zayn looks away, but Harry can still see the shadow crossing his face.  “I don’t know what I would have done without it; it was a great comfort to me during the war, kept me sane amid all the craziness.”  Zayn pauses for a moment and wets his lips.  “I’ve carried it with me always, just as I’ll carry _them_ with me always.”

“That’s…that’s beautiful,” Harry struggles out.

Zayn simply shrugs.  “So what else did you want to know?”

“Where did Brannon come from?  Was that just a name you made up?”

“Brannon was my mum’s maiden name,” Zayn supplies.  “I find it necessary to switch up my identity from time to time—nature of the beast, I guess,” he adds drily.

“Were you always a vampire?”

“No, I was tuned at 22.”

“How?”

Zayn sucks in a breath and bites the inside of his cheek.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry adds hurriedly.

“I want to,” Zayn says firmly.  “I want you to understand.”  He takes a minute to collect himself before plunging head-on into the most incredible tale Harry’s ever heard.

“It was all ‘Rally Round the Flag’ and ‘God Save the King’ and the whole rot.  You know the drill; it hasn’t changed much through the years,” Zayn laughs bitterly.  “So I joined up with my two best mates from uni, became a part of Kitchener’s Army.” 

Zayn looks down at his hands, seems to gather strength from them.  “It was August 1914, and we thought the war would be over in a year, maybe two.  Thought we’d all come home heroes, chests bursting with glory and medals to show the grandkids and all that shit.  Didn’t think the war would go on for six bloody years.  Didn’t think most of us would come back in caskets.  Course, many didn’t come back at all….”

A wealth of emotions flood over him, and Harry can’t remember ever seeing anyone look so tragically sad, so overcome with a memory too horrible to bear.  But just as quickly, Zayn pulls himself together.  “So…that day.”  Zayn swallows, clasping and re-clasping his hands together.  Harry almost wants to tell him to stop, but he’s too spellbound to do anything. 

“Yeah, so it was the year after I enlisted.  We could tell it was coming; the battlefield was eerily silent, and you could just make out a hint of chlorine in the air.  So one of my best mates—Trevor was his name—got scared, started shouting something about running away from the gas, and I knew it was a fool’s errand.  He shot out of the trench before any of us could stop him.”

Harry stares at Zayn wide-eyed.  “What happened?”

“I went after him,” Zayn replies matter-of-factly, eyes darkening even more as he becomes transported by his own nightmarish tale.  “I ran, ducking for cover as best I could and praying to any God who’d listen.”  He bows his head and shakes it angrily, curling his right hand into a fist.  “It was all for naught though.  Trevor was struck down no more than ten metres from me.”

Zayn shakes the image away.  “Anyway, I dropped to the ground and low-crawled back towards the trench, gasping for breath in my mask.  It was then the green-grey cloud descended upon me, and I started choking.  I’m not sure whether it was because my mask was slightly defective, or the stress, or the exertion, but I could feel the poison burning my eyes, filling my lungs, suffocating me,” he reveals with a shuddering breath before burying his head in his hands. 

The room’s gone silent again, and Harry can’t tell if Zayn’s actually crying or just embarrassed by his inability to rein in his emotions, by this fissure in his façade.  It all reinforces that the boy next to him is from another generation, one where a stiff upper lip was an English gentleman’s greatest accessory. 

Harry wants to touch him.  He wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t know how.  He can’t figure out how to close the chasm between them.  His eyes sting, and he feels so inadequate.  “That’s awful,” he manages at last, braving to lay a comforting hand on Zayn’s arm.  “That’s something no one should have to live through.”

Surprisingly dry eyes blink up at him in confusion.  “But don’t you see, Haz—I _didn’t_ live through it.”

“Oh.”  Harry feels like a bloody fool, but before he can berate himself too strongly, another thought strikes him.  “Is that the nightmare, Zayn?  The one that keeps coming back?”

“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs, a soft confession in the gentle quietude.  “Yeah, it is.”

Harry can’t help it anymore.  A shattering sob wracks his breast, and then he’s weeping miserably.  He can’t bear the thought of anyone going through that horror—let alone someone he knows, someone he cares about. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Zayn coos, and Harry dares to look up at him through his tears.  There’s an almost fond smile on Zayn’s lips although his eyes are just as lonely as ever.  “Thank you, Haz,” he says tenderly, stroking his thumb against a tear-stained cheek.

Yes, Zayn thanked him, but Harry can’t fathom why.  He wonders if Zayn was thanking him for listening, for empathising, or for crying tears he himself can no longer shed.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

_I'm looking through you, where did you go?_   
_I thought I knew you, what did I know?_   
_You don't look different, but you have changed_   
_I'm looking through you, you're not the same_

-“I’m Looking Through You,” The Beatles

**(Zayn)**

 

Zayn takes one last glance around Molly Bloom’s before locking up and sending everyone home.  The bar had been hit pretty hard for a weeknight, some Cup Final that Sharon overlooked bringing in more business than usual.  Hence, it’s much later than usual as he rounds the corner to their street, and the Victorian brownstone and its promise of sleep is the most welcoming thing he could ever conjure in this world (or any other for that matter).

Zayn’s already half asleep as he lazily glides a toothbrush over his teeth.  He hasn’t eaten or drunk anything since the last time he brushed them, but he’s a creature of habit.  He counts to sixty, then rinses his mouth three times, as he always does, before checking out his reflection in the mirror.  He seems paler than usual and his eyes are ringed with dark circles.  He should be thinking about feeding soon since it’s been several days, but he’s too tired to even contemplate going out now.  Besides, Cal promised she’d give him some blood bags from her stash.  She said she’s picked up a whole slew of B+ just for him, and it’s almost got his mouth watering.  Plus, now that Harry knows everything, Zayn will be able to keep some stored in the flat. 

He sheds his black work clothes and washes the grime of the city off his face and hands before entering his bedroom.  He isn’t surprised to find Harry already tucked into his bed.  Harry’s phone is on the brightest setting, and he’s making weird motions with hands, but really, Zayn’s not surprised about that either.  Zayn’s met a lot of people in his time on Earth—both living and undead—but Harry’s easily one of the oddest ducks he’s ever come across.  It’s hard not to have a soft spot towards this kid.

“What are you up to, babe?” Zayn yawns, searching for an undershirt to go with the boxers he’s wearing.  He contemplates putting a jumper on as well because he’s always chilly at night, but he’s too tired to bother and the bed looks so warm and inviting—especially with Harry in it.

“Making shadow puppets,” Harry tells him, and Zayn sees he’s got the flashlight app on and that there are odd shapes dancing about on the ceiling.  The younger boy’s face is screwed up as he concentrates hard on the peculiar motions of his hands.  “I’m trying to figure out how to make a crocodile.  Do you know how to make a crocodile?”

Zayn snorts into his hand.  He doesn’t mean to laugh at the other boy, but it’s really the most ridiculous question he’s ever been posed at two twenty-seven in the morning (and that’s saying a lot). 

“Don’t take the piss—this is important,” Harry states indignantly, wiggling his fingers around some more until he makes something that resembles a rooster, then a cat.  “Wanna get it right before I go to sleep.”

“Why aren’t you asleep already, Haz?  It’s late, and you’ve got a lecture in the morning if I’m not mistaken.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry mumbles, resting his hands on top of the phone laying on his stomach.  The room instantly goes black.  “Can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

“Then, since I’m here, we can both sleep,” Zayn announces, getting into bed with him.  “I’m fucking knackered.”  He isn’t lying either—his bones feel like they’re every bit the one-hundred-twenty-four years he’s walked the planet. 

And then some.

“I thought vampires were supposed to be night creatures?” Harry asks distractedly, back to making odd gesticulations with his hands.

“Told you I was a shit vampire.  I suppose I’m used to the schedule of a uni student now, but I’ve always been fond of sleep.  Now, you said a crocodile, right?”  Zayn makes his best attempt at a crocodile, the fierce ones that captured his imagination when he was a child, ones living in the pages of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ or lurking onstage in _Peter Pan_.  His parents had taken him down to London to see the play for his twelfth birthday, and it was all he could talk about for months afterwards.

He didn’t think he’d actually end up becoming _“The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up,”_ but there you have it.  

“No, that won’t do at all,” Harry critiques, sticking his tongue out as he studies Zayn’s attempt.  “I wanted a friendly crocodile, not one that’s going to devour the rest of my shadow animals.”

“But crocodiles are supposed to be the antagonists, Harry.”

“Listen, just because you’ve got a Master of Arts in English with Honours, smarty-pants,” Harry states, green eyes twinkling, “doesn’t mean you get to tell me what character traits my shadow puppets are allowed to have.”

Zayn belly laughs at that, and the mattress shakes as Harry joins, then clucks at him for ruining his half-formed puppet.  “Understood, Haz.”

“Good,” Harry says earnestly, “because there _can_ be such a thing as good crocodiles, Zayn.  Just as there can be such a thing as good vampires.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Zayn groans.  He should’ve known this boy would have some fucked-up moral at the bottom of the rabbit hole.  He always did.

“Goodnight, Zayn.”

The light emanating from Harry’s iPhone flicks off and the room’s once again plunged into darkness.  It only stays quiet for a few moments however.

“Hey, I just thought of something.”

“Yes?” Zayn mumbles into his pillow.

“You made a shadow—well, your hands did anyway,” Harry says thoughtfully.  “I thought you couldn’t make a shadow.”

“Sunlight,” Zayn responds sleepily.  “And don’t believe everything you’ve read about vampires, just saying.  Goodnight, Haz.”

“Goodnight,” Harry repeats.  “Sweet dreams,” he adds, and for once, Zayn feels confident that he won’t have any nightmares tonight.  No, Harry and his fucking crocodile chased them all away.

 

**\+ + +**

 

They’re in the midst of a heated game of Scrabble when Zayn’s phone rings.  Harry looks up annoyed because it’s the third time in the last half hour, but it’s not like Zayn doesn’t know that either.  They’ve got a ‘no phones rule’ in effect for the duration of the game so Zayn swipes left and goes back to brooding over his shit collection of letters.  He lays down some lame two-letter word, then goes back to wondering where all the bloody ‘U’ tiles have gone.  (His best guess is that either George or Niall ate them because there doesn’t seem to be any in this bloody Scrabble pouch.)

It’s Harry turn now, and he rolls up his sleeves like he’s got something good (and Zayn can already feel his lead being wiped away).  Harry spells out ‘A-D-J-U-N-C-T’ as he lays it down and smirks when he gets the triple letter score for the ‘J.’  Of course he does. 

Then, Zayn’s phone goes off.  Again. 

“Somebody obviously wants to talk to you.  Go ahead and take it if you need to.”

Zayn shakes his head and whispers, “Louis,” as if the Doncaster lad might hear him.  Then he’s back to focusing on the tiles because he is _not_ going to let Harry beat him at a word game.  No fucking way.  He allows himself only a brief moment to mourn the ‘U’ Harry put down which is attached to a ‘P’ (and for all intents and purposes useless). 

“You know what?” Zayn states as he starts putting out his next word.  “Fuck ‘U.’”

Harry frowns.  “Well, that’s not very nice…especially since George might be able to hear you, Zayn.”

“No,” Zayn chuckles because Harry looks positively put out by his last comment.  He points to his most recent word, ‘FAQIR,’ and then they’re both stifling giggles.  He can’t remember the last time he laughed so much.  It’s like he’s become a different person since he’s met Harry and especially since he’s revealed his secret to the Cheshire boy.  “See, I used the ‘Q’ without the ‘U.’”

“Well, talk about gangsta…,” Harry cracks as he records the score in his meticulous handwriting, pushing his chestnut fringe back when it falls in his face.

There’s something about this moment that makes Zayn wax sentimental.  He thinks he could do this forever—play stupid board games and make even stupider jokes with the boy across from him, the one with the quixotic eyes, sweet dimples, and lop-sided smile that’s he’s grown so fond of.  He didn’t think there was much left for him to look forward to, but now he feels like he’s got a new lease on life.

And it’s all because of Harry.

“Zayn, maybe you should answer it this time,” Harry advises, and it’s just then Zayn realises his mobile’s going off again.  “Louis?” Harry asks when Zayn doesn’t budge, just lets the final ring die away.

“Cal,” he corrects, “but I’m sure he either stole her phone or she’s advocating for him.  Either way, I’m not bloody answering.”

Harry looks like a perplexed puppy as his eyes widen to the size of saucers.  “Great Horn Spoon!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers.  “Cal’s a vampire, too!”

And really, Zayn’s not sure where to start—with the fact that Harry’s only just deduced Cal’s status as a vampire or the absolutely ridiculous ‘curse’ that just left the boy’s lips. 

Harry’s already jumped to the next deduction though.  “ _That’s_ why you didn’t want me around Cal.  It all makes sense now…except it doesn’t,” he reconsiders, tracing his lower lip with his finger.  “She seems friendly-like—for a vampire.  Why don’t you trust her?”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “Because she’s a bloody vampire, Harry.  I barely trust _myself_ with you.”  Harry doesn’t push him further on the issue, and Zayn’s relieved.  “How about we finish our game then?”

“Just one more question,” Harry states, and Zayn senses he’s not getting out of this interrogation anytime soon.

“What?” he sighs resignedly.

“It was Louis wasn’t it?  Louis was the one who made you—”

“A monster,” Zayn supplies, the same sour taste in his mouth whenever he thinks of the topic.  “Yes, Louis made me a monster.” 

“A _vampire_ ,” Harry says meaningfully. 

“Six of one and half a dozen of the other,” Zayn shrugs.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.  But anyway, is that why you hate him so much?”

“I guess, psychologically, a lot of my problems with him stem from that.  Also, we’ve had certain…disagreements about things more recently; he seems to get the concepts of right and wrong twisted sometimes.”  Harry shudders but Zayn’s quick to qualify.  “No, he’s not, like, evil really.  It’s just…he sometimes forgets he was human once.  Then again, four hundred years is a hell of a long time.”

Harry gapes at him.  “Four hundred years?!”

Zayn snickers.  “Yeah, he’s like Shakespeare-old.  I used to call him ‘Dad’ just to get on his tits.  Cal, on the other hand, is younger than me even.”

“Maybe Cal helps Louis.”

“Maybe,” Zayn shrugs, not convinced.  “Or maybe he’s corrupting her.”

Harry changes the subject.  “So how’d he become a vampire then?  Was he born one?”

“No, it was during the plague—1606 I think it was,” Zayn relates from memory.  He’s heard this story often enough.  “Doncaster was hit pretty bad, I guess.  A rather nasty fellow by the name of Jaspar Blackness turned him, but I don’t really like to talk about those sort.”

“What sort?”

“The ones who gave vampires a bad name throughout the centuries,” Zayn explains.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re not saints, but we’re not all Count fucking Dracula either.  Luckily, most of them—like this Jaspar I was talking about—were wiped out in civil wars or banished to the ends of the Earth by the Council, all that rot.  I’m not really into the politics of all of it; I just try to keep my nose clean and stay out of trouble.”

“How does a vampire get into trouble anyway?”

“Revealing oneself; interfering with human society, like, on a massive scale; not covering one’s tracks properly; murdering other vampires,” Zayn ticks off.  He clears his throat.  “Getting involved with a human isn’t, um, exactly encouraged.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time, and Zayn isn’t telepathic but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Harry’s thinking.  “Are you gonna get in trouble, Zayn?”

“I don’t think so,” Zayn proffers.  “They’re just guidelines really.  Besides,” he adds with an edge he recognises from his days growing up in Bradford, “I couldn’t give two fucks about whatever they might do to me.”

“Okay, but seriously, what happens if you break a vampire rule?”

“Nowadays?” Zayn clarifies and Harry nods.  “Fuck if I know.  All the same, I wouldn’t go around telling anybody what you know…even Niall and Liam.”

“I won’t,” Harry swears, and Zayn believes him.  Harry isn’t the type you tell a small, happy secret to because, chances are, he’d be spilling it the first chance he got; he couldn’t help himself.  On the flipside, Zayn’s quite sure that Harry’s also the type who would keep an important secret.  He’d take it to the grave with him without question. 

“I think I’m Scrabbled out,” Zayn admits.  “Let’s finish this later, yeah?”  Harry’s quick to agree, and they carefully put the game board up where George can’t get at it.

Zayn caves and replies to Cal who’s sent him a barrage of unpleasant texts.  It’s his fault, really, because he had texted her an ambiguous, ‘ _Harry knows_ ,’ that morning and forgotten about it.  She doesn’t mention her boyfriend at all which is just fine by Zayn.

“It must’ve been hard,” Harry muses later that night.  He’s perched on the edge of the mattress as is his way when he’s thinking about something.  “ _Was_ it hard?  Changing, I mean.”

Zayn shrugs uneasily.  “The actual transition wasn’t fun, I’m not gonna lie, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.”

Harry looks up at him doubtfully.

“Yeah, losing my family was the hardest—well, technically they lost me.”  Zayn sits down next to Harry on the bed, and Harry automatically reaches for his hand and grasps it tightly.  “It was shit seeing their faces after they heard I went missing on the battlefield, shit being able to do piss all about it.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Harry breathes.

“Yeah, and then I remember one thing kept sticking in my head afterwards:  the fact that I’d never fallen in love while I was alive.  My heart felt so cold when I woke up, felt like it was plunged in an ice bath, that I’d not be able to feel anything again the same way.”  Zayn bites his lip and shakes his head.  He doesn’t know why he’s telling Harry all this.  He doesn’t even think about this shit.  Not anymore.  Not really.

“Has…has anything changed?” Harry asks hesitantly, still clasping his hand.  There’s a look in his viridescent eyes now that Zayn never wants to forget.  He wants to keep this image always, catalogue it for a rainy day when he needs it.

“ _Everything’s_ changed, Harry,” he confesses.  It seems like too much and not enough at the same time.  But then, he feels Harry’s warm, soft lips on his and nothing else seems to matter…

…Except the fact that he’s a vampire, that is.

“Harry, stop,” he commands roughly, gripping the younger boy’s shoulders and pushing back until he’s at arm’s length.

Harry glares at him.  “I know you’re trying to protect me, Zayn, but I want this.”  Harry grabs a fistful of Zayn’s undershirt and tries to pull him closer in a veritable tug-of-war.   “I want _you_ ; it’s all I think about.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.  I’m dangerous for you, Harry.  Do you know what could happen if I can’t control my craving?”

“No, because you told me not to believe everything I’ve read about vampires.”

“Twit,” Zayn snorts back, loosening his grip as Harry loosens his.  “Well, that whole bit about drinking blood—well, that’s true in case you were wondering.”

“Thought so,” Harry winks before groaning like he’s just thought of something.  “You didn’t use the blood you got at the butcher’s to make a blood pie, did you?”

Zayn shakes his head.  “No, drank it straight, slightly chilled.”

Harry shivers.  “Well, that sounds nauseating.”

“Well, it’s not as good as fresh human blood straight from the vein, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

“You like feeding off humans, then?” Harry questions.  “Got the feeling it wasn’t your thing after some things you’ve said in the past.”

“No, no…it’s always good at the time,” Zayn admits and mostly it is.  Mostly it’s very good.  “It’s afterwards that the guilt and disgust set in.”

“Guilt because you’ve killed?”

“No,” Zayn quickly replies.  He doesn’t want Harry to get the wrong idea.  “No, I’m always careful, always seal the wound and erase my tracks.  I never take too much, just what I need and what I know their bodies can replenish.”  He hangs his head, his un-styled hair falling forward to cover his eyes.  “I may be a monster, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer, Harry.  I hope you know that.”

“Did you ever…?”  Harry stops to lick his rosebud lips.  They’re still pink from earlier, and maybe it’s wrong, but all Zayn can do is think about kissing them again.  “Did you ever feed off someone while you were fucking them?”

Zayn’s not sure where Harry’s going here but he answers anyway.  “Yes.”

“Does it…does it get you off?” Harry asks hoarsely. 

“Sometimes…,” Zayn replies truthfully, “but not always.”

“Bet _they_ do—get off on it, I mean.  Bet they’re coming as soon as you’re at their neck.”  His eyes darken with lust and suddenly Zayn gets it.

“ _Harry,_ ” he warns.

Harry takes it as some kind of an invitation because before Zayn can stop him, Harry’s climbing onto his lap, grinding his bum against Zayn’s semi.

“Want you,” Harry moans, and it’s _filthy_.  Harry’s not usually like this…out of bed, at any rate, and it’s almost more than Zayn can take.

Zayn holds onto the younger boy’s strong thighs, not exactly guiding him but not stopping him either.  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry insists, a thin layer of sweat glistening off his toned torso.  “I’ve wanted you since forever and don’t tell me you didn’t know that.  I made it so obvious the other night.”

“You were pissed,” Zayn protests, leaning back on his elbows as Harry continues his gyrations. 

“Wasn’t that pissed; definitely not pissed now, babe.” 

“I’m a vampire, Harry,” Zayn states angrily because apparently this kid hasn’t been listening.  “I could harm you without even meaning to.  We can’t do anything…er, sexual.  It’s playing with matches, Harry.  I’m serious.”

“Me, too,” Harry challenges, biting at his lip seductively. 

“So you think you’ve got it all under control, eh?  Think you can handle me then?”

Harry just smirks down at him, and Zayn’s not going to let him get away with it—not this time.  He flips them around in a flash, executing a shoulder straddle pin with little to no effort.

“If you wanted me to suck your dick, Zayn,” Harry manages, a little out of breath since Zayn’s knees are pressing into his shoulders, “you could’ve just asked.”

Zayn feels his cock pulse with interest inside his joggers, but he’s not going to let Harry distract him before he gets his point across.  He’s not going to think about how close Harry’s mouth is to his crotch, how Zayn can practically feel the hot breath stirring his erection.  He definitely isn’t pondering what it would be like to fuck that perfect mouth of his while Harry lay there and— 

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Zayn glares down at him.  “No,” he fibs.  “I’m demonstrating how ‘this’ is a bad idea, how easy it is for me to overpower you in the blink of an eye.”

Harry winces then, and the thought that he might be in pain is almost more than Zayn can bear.  He immediately releases Harry and scrambles to the side.  “You okay, babe?” he asks hurriedly.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?  Please tell me I didn’t hurt you!”  Zayn’s frantic, alternately rubbing Harry’s shoulders and searching his eyes for a sign that he’s okay.

Then, Harry starts laughing _and_ _what the fuck?_

“You were faking it, weren’t you?” Zayn demands in disbelief.  “You’re not hurt at all, you little shit.”

“Just trying to show you how easy it is for _me_ to take control in the blink of an eye,” Harry smirks.

_“Touché.”_

Harry looks hopeful.  “So does that mean—?”

“No,” Zayn growls, willing his stiffy to go away, but his body isn’t cooperating.  He’s lying on his stomach, head buried in a pillow, but all he wants to do is hump the mattress while pretending it’s Harry’s mouth, or Harry’s hands, or Harry’s cock, or—

“I’m gonna go sleep in my room,” Zayn announces abruptly because there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep his hands to himself if he stays in here.

Harry waggles his eyebrows.  “Have fun.”

“Ah, piss off, you.” 

Harry cackles as Zayn collects his favourite pillow and heads into his own bedroom.  He’s horny as fuck, but he’s not about to beat one off while Harry’s listening through thin walls, waiting for it.  He can’t let Harry know what he does to Zayn. 

He’s able to hold out for fifteen minutes before he gives in and slides a hand into his joggers.  He pauses to listen, but there’s nothing but the steady sound of light breathing coming from the other side of the wall.  His back arches as he strokes himself gently, chin tipping upwards as his jaw goes slack.  It’s not enough, though, so he waits another moment, makes sure everything’s still, then he slides his pants and joggers down to his ankles before shaking them off.

He wraps a hand around himself again, his erection achingly hard now as he thinks of Harry practically begging Zayn to fuck him earlier.  His heels dig into the bed as he starts jerking himself off at an even tempo, biting back a moan as he tries to coax out the orgasm that’s so near and yet so far—

“You mind if I watch?”

Zayn halts instantly when he hears the familiar baritone, when he sees Harry standing a few feet from the edge of the bed.  Zayn should be embarrassed.  He’s naked from the waist down, legs slightly bent and spread as one hand cups his balls and the other tries to cover the length of his cock in vain.  If anything, it just turns him on, touching himself so intimately as Harry watches shamelessly, his own hand drifting towards the tent in his boxers.

“How long you been standing there?” Zayn demands, feeling suddenly self-conscious as Harry’s eyes rake over his lower half.

“You mind?” Harry falters.  “I-I can go, it’s just the door was open, and you were so loud, and I thought…never mind.”

“You thought what?”

“I thought you might need a little…help,” he finishes lamely.

“You did, eh?” Zayn smirks.  “But you never answered my question—how long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough for, um, this to happen.”  He hooks his thumbs into his waistband and tugs it down until his erection springs free.  It’s thick and pink and uncut, and Zayn’s practically drooling over the mere sight of it.

“Oh, I see.  Looks like you have a problem there.”

“Yeah,” Harry rasps, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously as he shimmies off his boxers and leaves them where he’s standing.  He saunters over then, dick first, moonlight bathing his already golden skin.  “Yeah, I was sort of hoping we could help each other out.”  He stops when the front of his knees hit the side of the mattress, his dick bouncing obscenely.

Zayn shifts to his side and props himself up with one arm.  “You know,” he muses, “you look so sweet and innocent, but you’re actually dirty as fuck.”

“What can I say?” Harry offers with a shrug of his toned shoulders.  “You bring it out in me.”

“That’s enough talking,” Zayn says at last because he can’t take the teasing, can’t take the foreplay anymore.  There’s this dangerously powerful energy between them, and he knows Harry can sense it as well.  Harry isn’t scared though, relentlessly pushing them to the inevitable.  He’s lighting the match and flinging it carelessly onto the stick of dynamite, not knowing if it’s going to create something magical like fireworks or just explode in both their faces.

Zayn decides to be reckless, too.  He yanks Harry forward, and the boy topples onto him clumsily, limbs everywhere like a baby fawn.  Zayn looks at him with intent, with a quiet purpose before sealing their lips together in a promise.  They stay like that for a while.  Still.  Undemanding.  Then, Harry starts moving, and Zayn’s quick to reciprocate.  He takes the time to taste Harry properly as he leisurely explores every inch of the other boy’s mouth.  Their cocks slot together, leaving wet trails of pre-come against their abdomens, but it isn’t harried; it isn’t rushed.  It’s like a long, slow drag of a cigarette as Harry deepens the kiss and fists the front of Zayn’s thin shirt, pushing it farther up his chest.

Then, Harry’s tongue dances over the sharp outline of his fangs, and a tremor goes through the younger boy’s body.  Zayn’s about to pull away because he feels so exposed, so ugly, when Harry moans into his mouth, and his hips buck forward like he’s so aroused he can’t take it anymore.

Zayn breaks the kiss and stares wonderingly into Harry’s dazed eyes.  “It…it turns you on, doesn’t it?  You fucking _like_ that I’m a vampire, don’t you?”

“Don’t mind it?” Harry offers, hiding his eyes as he buries his face into Zayn’s chest.  “Wouldn’t mind if you…if you drank from me maybe,” he admits, words muffled by Zayn’s t-shirt.  “ _Want_ you to actually.  Want you to fuck me and drink from me like you did the others.”

Zayn rakes his fingers through Harry’s short curls.  “It’s different with you, Harry.  Don’t want to treat you like that when you’re so much more than that.”

“Am I?” Harry smiles, and it’s sweet and pure and Zayn’s whole world right now.  “Well, just wanted to let you know that you could, I mean, if you wanted to.”

Zayn longs to shout from the rooftops that he wants it more than anything, but he’s not going to give in to that particular urge.  He’s stronger than that.  (He thinks.)

“What if I open you up slowly with my tongue?” Zayn asks and Harry shivers again.  Zayn loves how responsive he is, how Zayn’s every word, every touch, evokes a strong reaction in the boy.  “Get you nice and ready for me before I fuck you on your knees, on your back, any way you want.”

“No more talking,” Harry whimpers.  “Want you in me…now.”  He starts to tug at Zayn’s shirt and Zayn sits up and flings it across the room.

“Slow down, babe,” Zayn chuckles, brushing his hand against Harry’s cheek.  “Need to get you ready first.”

“No you don’t,” Harry admits sheepishly, crawling backwards on his hands and knees, “already did that in my room.  Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”  Then without warning, Harry goes down on him, and Zayn slams his head back against the headboard because _fuck._

Harry pops off his dick to check on him.  “You alright?”

“No,” Zayn pants.  “Need to fuck you now; otherwise, I’m gonna come all over that pretty face of yours in about ten seconds.  Maybe less.”

Harry looks positively devilish now as he leers up at Zayn.  “Condoms?”

“Top drawer, box on left.”

Harry nods, whistles as he stretches to reach the nightstand, cock dangling in the air, then brushing back and forth across Zayn’s stomach like a fucking pendulum.  Harry takes his time opening the packet and then rolling it on Zayn.  It’s like he’s taking pride in his work (or wicked satisfaction in driving Zayn crazy).  When Harry’s done torturing him, Zayn flips them again so he’s on top.  Now Harry’s the one who looks out of sorts as Zayn spreads his cheeks apart.  He aligns his tip with Harry’s puckered, pink hole and pushes in.

He groans as it glides right in.  (Harry definitely wasn’t lying about prepping himself earlier.)  As Zayn waits for Harry to catch his breath, he imagines Harry in his own bedroom, fantasising about Zayn’s cock as he fingers himself.  Zayn’s hips stutter at the thought, and he tries to calm himself down.  He never gets like this, never gets this worked up about sex.  It’s always been a means to an end and not much more.

He starts moving when Harry tells him it’s okay, slow and gentle pulses, as Harry fists the sheets beside him, tugs at locks of his own hair, plays with his nipples, and presses his fingers against the headboard until they start turning white.  It’s like he’s so overwhelmed he doesn’t know what to do with his hands (although he doesn’t reach for his leaking cock).  He’s full of a restless energy, looking everywhere except at Zayn.

It won’t do.

Zayn switches gears then, hikes one of Harry’s long limbs on his shoulder and thrusts in until he bottoms out, then snaps his hips halfway back and does it again.  Harry gasps, walks his hands up the wooden headboard until he finds the top edge of it and grabs a hold of it like he’s holding on for dear life.

“Look at me, babe,” Zayn growls and Harry obeys, biting his lip _hard_.  Zayn dicks into him faster then and Harry takes it, letting out little grunts with every squeak of the mattress.  Zayn presses forward more, angles his thrusts so that he’s hitting the spot that makes Harry mewl beneath him every other time. 

And that’s when he smells it—the blood.  He knows instantly it’s Harry’s, would know it anywhere, that caramelly-sweet smell unmissable although he’s only had one taste months ago, the night they met.  Zayn traces it back to Harry’s lip, and it’s just a drop again, but it’s enough to make him mad with desire and bloodlust right now.

He realises his pace has slowed when Harry whines.  He leans down a little more, licks at the crimson stain on the younger boy’s lips, tasting it, savouring it.  Harry pulls him into a sloppy kiss then, his fingers tangling in Zayn’s hair.  When their lips separate, Zayn picks up the pace again, shamelessly staring at Harry’s lips and neck hungrily before forcing himself to look away.

 _“Do it,”_ Zayn hears, and he’s not sure where it came from.  He pushes the words away and tries to focus on something else, anything else.

“Do it.  Want you to.”

This time, Zayn knows that Harry is speaking to him, goading him on.  Harry turns his head to the side to reveal his beautiful, virgin throat.  It’s like an offering, one Zayn can’t resist, one Harry desperately doesn’t want him to.

And so Zayn starts rabbiting into the boy beneath him until Harry’s eyes start to roll back and his jaw goes slack.  Zayn hones in on his target, then sinks his teeth into porcelain flesh.  Harry comes untouched as Zayn drinks from him, and it’s all Zayn can do to hold on himself.  The blood pulses through him, charging him like electricity.  It’s the best Zayn’s ever had.  (But fuck, Harry’s the best he ever had.  Period.) 

As Harry slowly starts to come down from his high, Zayn reluctantly withdraws, sealing the small puncture wounds on his neck with a swipe of his broad tongue.  He pulls out a second later and Harry whimpers.

“Sensitive?” Zayn commiserates, trying to keep his mind off how hard he is _still_ as he slips off the condom and tosses it into the bin.  Normally, the blood is enough to sate him so he doesn’t need to come.

But that’s normally.

“No,” Harry brazenly remarks, “miss being filled up with your cock.”

“ _Fuck_ , Harry,” is all Zayn can manage before Harry’s hands push against his chest and he falls back against the mattress.  Harry doesn’t hesitate before swallowing him down, eyes watering as he takes as much of Zayn’s hard length as he can in one go.  He slides off, then firmly grips the base with one hand as he licks at Zayn’s weeping slit.  He’s teasing Zayn mercilessly, giving kitten licks before finally wrapping his lips around the head again. 

“Shit, gonna come,” Zayn moans but Harry doesn’t pull off, just sucks the orgasm right out of him, wave after wave like when he was still human.  After the second, Harry looks up at him smugly, licks his lips like he’s savouring the taste, and Zayn comes a third time, white ribbons painting the boy’s cheek and jaw.

“ _Geez_ , Zayn,” Harry sputters, wiping the come from his face.  “Didn’t think vampires came that much.”

“It’s been a long time,” Zayn offers sheepishly, “like, a _really_ long fucking time.” 

It’s then he spies the two white puncture wounds on Harry’s neck, and he remembers his moment of weakness with devastating recall.  “Shit, I lost control.  I knew this would fucking happen,” he curses.  He’s afraid to look at the other boy now, afraid how he’ll react now that the sexual arousal has worn off and he’s clear-headed again.  “I’m sorry, Haz.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry replies sleepily, curling into him with a yawn that seems to stretch on for days.  “I’m sorry we waited so long to do that because it was the best thing ever.  Seriously, I could die a happy man after tonight.”

“Don’t say that,” Zayn scolds but Harry just hums in return as he snuggles closer.  He’s snoring softly before long, and Zayn gingerly extricates himself from the koala hold to grab a wet flannel from the bathroom.  He cleans up the mess as best as he can without disturbing the slumbering boy.  Then he re-joins him and tries not to think too hard about things beyond his control.  He’s got a beautiful, warm boy in his arms, and really, that’s all he could ask for right now.

The rest will solve itself.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The next evening, they finish the Scrabble game.  (It ends in a draw and Zayn didn’t even know that was possible; however, he’s discovering all sorts of things since he’s met Harry.)  They’re in bed, tucked into each other—Harry’s this time because Zayn needs to wash his sheets—when Harry turns towards him.

“You’re not a monster, Zayn.  You couldn’t be.”

Zayn’s first impulse is to tell the other boy he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know the first thing about real-life monsters, but he swallows it down.  “Why do you say that, Haz?”

“Because I couldn’t love a monster.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

They’re at some new trendy place that Harry found on Princes Street because he miraculously has time to find new hangouts between school and everything else.  Cal joins as well (on the condition that she doesn’t let her boyfriend tag along), and she effortlessly fits into their little circle.  Harry and her get on especially well.  They’re both eccentric as fuck science nerds so he should’ve predicted it.

Still, he doesn’t like the idea of Harry socialising with vampires—‘friendly’ or not.  It’s something he’s going to have to get over if he expects this whole thing to work though.

Then again, if he’s being completely realistic, whatever he’s got going on with Harry right now isn’t exactly blessed by the Gods.  The thought puts him in a sombre mood because it’s the first time it’s really crossed his mind since they started doing what they’re doing.  It’s like they went straight from “hey, I’m a vampire” to fucking without passing go or collecting £200.

He did put his foot down after the first time though.  He’s refused to drink from Harry again until they get this figured out.  But despite the variety pack of blood bags stacked up in their fridge-freezer—courtesy of one Calyx Dawn—Harry cross-examines Zayn every time he’s about to go out after dark, even if it’s just to walk George.  He’d say Harry was jealous if it weren’t for the fact that Harry flatly denies it.

“What’s wrong, Zayn?” Harry asks softly, face full of concern, and Zayn knows he can’t think about this now, not when they’re out with their mates.

Cal being Cal is incredibly less subtle.  “Stop thinking so much, Zayn, an’ pay some attention tae that bonnie laddie of yours before someone else does.”

Zayn glares at her from across the table, but she just keeps the same smarmy look on her face.  Harry’s blushing like mad as Niall and Liam fist bump.

“So you two _have_ made it official then?” Liam gushes, almost beside himself with glee.

Niall doesn’t even wait for a response before he jumps in.  “About fecking time,” he announces, slapping Zayn on the back and winking at Harry.  “This calls for another round!”

Harry looks at Zayn then, a question in his verdant eyes that makes Zayn feel two-foot small.

A church bell tolls the hour from somewhere nearby, a clear reminder that time is definitely not on their side.  Zayn does his best to shut his thoughts away for the remainder of their night out, but he knows he’s not fooling Harry.  His suspicions are confirmed as soon as they’re alone again.

“What is it, Zayn?  Is it what Cal said about us?”

Zayn can’t do this on an empty stomach so he takes a blood bag out and sucks it down.  Harry grimaces at the sight, then goes to put the kettle on. 

“Tea?” he offers almost combatively and Zayn nods, setting out two cups.  He doesn’t like to have the aftertaste of slightly-stale O+ in his mouth if he can help it.

Harry brings out the Brown Betty, and Zayn’s wondering what he’s doing because Harry never drinks caffeine at night and Zayn’s hardly likely to finish a whole pot.  Zayn scratches his head and is about to say something when Harry answers his unspoken question:

“Not gonna sleep tonight anyway so what bloody difference does it make?”  It’s combatant again and so unlike Harry. 

The kettle finally whistles and Harry’s a little slow to take it off the hob which causes George to howl and come running out from wherever he was napping.  (Zayn and this dog could be related with their fondness for a certain green-eyed boy and frequent kips at any time of the day or night.)  Zayn picks up the little beagle, shows him it was just the noisy kettle while Harry goes to transfer the water to the waiting teapot. 

Somehow, though, the kettle slips from Harry’s hands, and it ricochets off the edge of the counter, causing boiling water to splash in Zayn’s direction.  Zayn’s superfast reflexes prevent the little pup from getting burned as he hugs George tight, then braces himself for the burn of the scalding water on the back of his arm.  The kettle goes clanging across the kitchen floor, and when it quiets down, Harry has a meltdown.  He falls to his knees and buries his head in his hands.  He’s heaving like he’s going to be sick, and Zayn quickly shuts George up in Harry’s bedroom so that he doesn’t get hurt or soaked, then returns to where Harry’s kneeling pathetically, crying his heart out over some spilt water.

“Haz, it’s okay,” Zayn soothes, getting down beside him and rubbing under his shirt. 

“No, it’s not,” Harry whinges.  “I’m hopeless…and I’m a menace to everyone around me apparently.  If you weren’t there to shield George….”

“’S’alright; I was.  Don’t worry so much.  Accidents happen.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t an accident,” Harry sniffles, “not really.” 

Zayn’s about to question him further because of course it was a bloody accident, but the material of his sleeve catches on the raw burn.  He can’t help but wince and Harry notices immediately, straightening up and taking Zayn’s arm.

“You’re hurt.”  He examines it closely, before making sure there aren’t any other burns that need treating. 

“It’s nothing,” Zayn alleges, rolling up his sleeve a few inches anyway.  “Hey, you should see what happens when I get holy water thrown on me,” he cracks, adding, “that was totally a joke,” when Harry regards him with low-level horror.

Harry turns on the tap, waits, then checks the temperature.  Zayn remains silent as Harry does what he needs to do, the doctoring helping Harry as much as him. 

“Hold it there,” Harry commands.  Harry’s got him bent awkwardly over the sink so that the cool water runs over the burned area.  It’s soothing and alleviates much of the discomfort.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He’s true to his word, returning with burn cream, towels, and gauze.  Harry throws a couple of towels on the floor to mop up the excess water.  Then, he turns the tap off, guides Zayn’s arm so his elbow’s resting on a towel on the counter, and proceeds to clean the burn area.  He rubs a generous amount of cream on it, and the aloe and peppermint-like smell burns Zayn’s nostrils. 

“Probably should wrap it as well,” Harry murmurs.  He’s conferring with himself apparently since Zayn’s knowledge of medicine largely comes from a time when you were told to ‘drink two fingers of whiskey and walk it off.’

Although, if he’s completely honest, the two fingers of whiskey ain’t sounding all that bad at the moment, not with how his arm’s fucking _throbbing_.

Harry gently wraps the gauze, prattling on in his bedside manner about how this will ensure the wound doesn’t get infected while it heals.  Zayn really should remind him that it can’t get infected because he’s not technically alive, but he’s got a feeling it would upset Harry somehow.  He’s got the feeling the boy’s hanging on by a thin thread as it is.

“Should be alright in a week or two,” Harry informs him when he’s done.  Zayn quirks an eyebrow and Harry catches himself.  “Oh, um, yeah.  I forgot the whole super speed healing thing.  Just disregard that last bit then.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it; shouldn’t’ve happened in the first place.”  Harry drums his fingers nervously on the counter.  “Still want that tea?” he inquires.

“Nah, I’m gonna turn in.”  Zayn ambles towards his bedroom and for once Harry doesn’t follow him.  He goes about his nightly routine, but still Harry doesn’t come in, even after all the lights in the flat are switched off.

Zayn has another bad dream that night, but this time it’s not about the war.  It’s about Harry growing older while Zayn stays perennially young.  Harry looks at him with such vitriol, such resentment in his eyes because Zayn’s taken everything from him, used him up until there’s nothing left.

Zayn wakes with a start and now both his head and his arm are throbbing.  He loosens the gauze a little and tries to go back to sleep.  He hears sounds in the other room, hears the moans and creaks of the floorboards as Harry listlessly roams around the dark flat like a ghost.

They’ll have to talk.  Tomorrow.  There’s no way around it.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Harry.”

Zayn’s never been one to mince words, never been the best at easing into something.  He’s a zero-to-sixty kind of bloke, but in this scenario, he can’t see how being anything less than direct is going to work.

And so that’s the approach he takes…direct and candid as fuck.

Harry is just quietly sitting there in the living room of their flat while Zayn works up the courage to do this.  He hadn’t thought it would be this hard last night…

But that was last night.

“Go on,” Harry urges, folding his legs so that he’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa.  His expression is patient but otherwise unreadable.  His eyes appear tired and bloodshot.  Because of the thins walls, Zayn knows Harry didn’t get a full night’s rest in—the already insomniac was tossing and turning more than usual when he eventually did go to bed—but he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

Zayn has to look away before he loses his nerve because Harry’s not supposed to look like this.  He’s not supposed to look broken before Zayn’s even said anything.

“I’ve been thinking…about the time we have.  I mean, what are we talking about here…twenty years?  Maybe it’ll be twenty-five before it becomes impossible for us to be together in public—and that’s assuming you keep that baby face of yours, and I never shave again.  Thank fuck it wasn’t the other way around—you being the immortal, I mean.  We’d be screwed royally.”  He finishes his rant and plops down in a chair, the one in the far corner with the orange and lime upholstery that he avoids with a passion on a normal basis, but this isn’t a normal basis.

“I’m technically older than you,” Harry reminds him, and Zayn thinks his roommate’s lost the plot until he expounds.  “That is, I’ve aged twenty-three years, and you…were turned at twenty-two.”

Zayn regards him suspiciously.  “I’m not going to change you into a monster if you’re thinking that.”

“I wasn’t.  Did I say a word about you turning me?”

Even the thought makes Zayn feel suddenly nauseated, almost throws him into a panic.  “Did Cal make a shit suggestion like that?  Is she the one who put that notion into your head?”

“No, of course not.  Calm down, geez.”

Zayn realises he’s not seated anymore, that he’s stomping around the room like an angry animal.  “Well, just so you know, just so there’s no miscommunication or anything,” Zayn begins, making sure to look the other boy directly in the eye.  “I would _never_ change you, Harry.  Not fucking ever,” he adds for good measure.

“Wouldn’t ask you to,” Harry rasps out quietly, casting his gaze downwards.  “All I’m asking for is right now, Zayn.  Nothing else.”

“Well, I mean, we’ve got to consider if it’s worth it, like.  What _if_ it’s only twenty years?  It may seem like a long time to you now, but it isn’t,” Zayn tells him.  He’s desperate to make Harry understand.  “It’s like a drop in the fucking pool of eternity, and I don’t know if I can do that to myself—or, more importantly, to you.  Because if we’re together, that means you won’t have anyone to grow old with; you’ll lose that opportunity.  I’ll have stolen it from you.”

“Zayn, don’t talk like that.  Just think about today; tomorrow will take care of itself.”  Harry’s shaking now, and something tells him Zayn ought to stop, but he can’t. 

“Being with me is a fucking liability,” Zayn persists.  He’s on a roll now.  “Are you prepared for all the questions your friends and family will have when I don’t get older?  What then?  You just gonna piss off with me every time I’m forced to start a new life with a new identity?  Just quit your practice when you become a vet and start anew somewhere else?  Move to fucking Canada or something?”

Harry almost smiles then.  “Canada’s not so bad from what I’ve heard.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “You know what I mean.”

“Don’t think about all that.”  Harry stands and blocks his path.  He takes hold of Zayn’s arm, the one he injured yesterday and then stops, examining it.  Zayn does, too.  The burn is almost completely healed, only a slightly raised redness remaining.  Even the edge of the tattoo that was affected looks normal again.  Zayn _had_ been slightly concerned that he’d have to have some of the ink redone, but it appears to be intact—Harry’s treatment no doubt a contributing factor.  Harry runs the pads of his fingers along it in awe, but the gesture is too intimate.

“Damn it…we’ve got to be realistic!”  He shakes Harry off because his touch is like poison at the moment.  It’s warm and loving and reassuring, and Zayn doesn’t deserve any of that because he’s being a coward, and he knows it. 

But he’s also dead right, and he knows _that_ as well. 

“Harry, you’re not bloody listening to me!”

“I heard you,” Harry says coldly.  “Twenty years, right?” he snorts almost spitefully, causing a chill to run down Zayn’s already cold spine.  “Not bloody likely,” he adds under his breath.

“’Not bloody likely?’”

Harry looks like an animal caught in a trap.  “You weren’t supposed to have heard that.”

Zayn taps his ear.  “Vampire hearing, remember?”

“I was just saying that you can’t count on twenty years, Zayn.  You don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow even.  All we have is today.”

“Why, you planning on leaving me tomorrow or something?” Zayn scowls.

“Not tomorrow,” Harry shrugs, refusing to look at him.  He tries to play it off like he’s being cheeky, like it’s some kind of joke, but Zayn can see right through him.

“What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Harry rubs his temples like he’s got a migraine.  “I’m just making the point that you never know what’s going to happen.  Sometimes…sometimes there are things out of our control.”

Zayn’s panicked now even though there’s no sensible reason for him to feel that way.  Harry’s talking in riddles.  It’s like they’ve switched roles or something—Zayn’s supposed to be the one freaking the fuck out while the other boy remains the same old cheery, always-look-for-the-silver-lining Harry.  That’s how it’s supposed to work.

Zayn tries to keep the fear out of his voice.  “Why do I get the feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“I don’t know.”

Zayn just stares at him for the longest time, like perseverance will give him the answers he’s searching for.  (It doesn’t.)

“Stop that,” Harry admonishes.

“Huh?”

“That eerie vampire not blinking thing; it gives me the creeps,” Harry retorts.  Zayn looks away then, squeezing his eyes shut.  “And by the way,” Harry seethes, “you don’t get the right to be angry about the fact I ‘might’ walk out one day when you’re the one talking about ending this before it’s even begun.  That’s not how it works, asshole.”

A door slams and Zayn knows he deserves it because whatever his original intention was, it wasn’t this.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn apologises the next day, tells Harry he’s right.  They may not have forever, but that shouldn’t stop them from living now.  Besides, things don’t have to be so serious, not yet.

Zayn almost believes it, too. 

Harry kisses him passionately when he’s done talking, and one thing leads to another.  Zayn ends up fucking Harry against the kitchen counter, too desperate to make it to either of their bedrooms.

The next night, Harry sucks him off on the sofa while they’re watching telly.  Zayn returns the favour.

Afterwards, Harry whispers how glad he is that everything’s back to normal between them.

Zayn almost believes it, too. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

“You smell like hospital,” Zayn complains, scrunching up his nose.  “You always smell like hospital or horseshit lately when you get home.  How’d I get so lucky?” he teases, going over to give him a peck on the cheek.

Harry pushes him away though.  “Thanks,” he says flatly.  And yes, Harry’s definitely off.  Zayn would think it was exams, but Harry says the Vet School doesn’t have exams in the spring so he’s at a loss to explain Harry’s behaviour.

“I was just taking the piss, yeah?  I’m sorry if you had a bad day, babe.”

Harry won’t look at him.  “I’ve had worse.”

“Well, you deserve only sunshiny days from here on.”  He hesitates only a moment more before he gets the next part off his chest.  “I love you, Harry.”

Harry blinks but Zayn can’t read his expression, can’t tell if he’s shocked or disgusted, pleased or about to reciprocate. 

Zayn keeps going because now’s his chance, and Harry’s worth putting himself out there for.  They need to make it real, need to make it official; he can see that now.  “Harry, I love you so Goddamn much.  I know I told you I was scared before about not having enough time with you, but I’ll take what I’ve got.  You know, I think I love you more each day,” Zayn laughs self-consciously.  “Is that even possible?”

Harry’s _very_ quiet after that.  Too quiet.

“Babe?” Zayn tries.

It seems to work, seems to pull Harry out of his trance at last.  He licks his lips and looks at the ground as he rasps out, “I’m sorry.”

And in that moment, Zayn’s entire world flips upside-down.  He’s been a fool.  A total fucking fool.  “I…I need to go out, clear my head.” 

He does just that, walking the pavements until he’s too tired to go on.  He had been so sure—so sure that Harry wanted more, so sure that Harry loved him, too.  (Hadn’t Harry almost said it a dozen times before or had Zayn just imagined it?) 

He doesn’t return until nearly three, and Harry opens the door for him before he even gets his key in the lock.  “So…good night for ‘hunting?’”

Zayn glowers past him.  He knows he should ignore Harry’s petty comment but he can’t.  He can’t resist one last dig, can’t resist getting the last word in:

“Yeah, it was a _great_ night for hunting,” he calls back from his bedroom door.  “Had a sick time—thanks for asking.”

He kicks the door closed, then dives on the bed, fully-dressed.  There’s a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the dick comment he just made or simply because he hasn’t brushed his teeth.  Then again, he could give zero fucks about his nightly routine right now.

He could give zero fucks about everything right now.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The mood of the small flat in Grassmarket is positively sombre the next morning.

When Zayn’s finished getting ready, he enters the main area to find Harry sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter.  His flatmate’s still in his pyjamas, an untouched bowl of cereal beside him.  He’s staring blankly at the television which would be all fine and dandy—if it were on.  The funny thing is, Zayn could’ve sworn he heard the telly blasting earlier.  He half wishes it was still on just so it wouldn’t feel so deathly silent as he treads into the kitchen to search for his cigarette case.

“Good morning,” he greets Harry, hoping they can at least agree to make the flat liveable until they work this thing out between them.  “Thought you had to catch a bus to Langhill this morning,” he says, eying Harry’s dishevelled appearance and feeling more than a little guilty.  “You’re going to be late.”

Harry snorts, clearly incensed, but Zayn’s not sure if it’s because of something he said or just his presence in general. 

He tries again.  “Where’s George?  I know I usually walk him evenings, but I’d be happy to take him out for a quick stroll since I haven’t got anything going on until later.”

“Don’t you dare touch him.”

“Okay, what is it?” Zayn demands, sliding between Harry’s fixed stare and the television screen.  “ _Harry_ , what is it?  Think I deserve an answer if nothing else.”  Apparently, Harry disagrees because he just turns his head, his eyes now burning laser beams into the out-of-date wallpaper.

Zayn sighs, frustration creeping in.  “Listen, if it’s about what I said early this morning when I got in…I wasn’t with a girl—or a guy, for that matter.  I was—”

“Save it,” Harry interrupts.  “I know where you were last night.”  Wordlessly, he picks up the remote and the television blares to life a second later:

 _“If you’re just tuning in,”_ a newsreader announces, _“we have breaking news on what authorities are calling a ‘mass slaughtering’ of cattle at the Langhill Farm Steading, part of the Royal School of Veterinary Studies, University of Edinburgh.  The Farm is located just eight miles south of Edinburgh city centre and houses a fully-working dairy farm and research centre….”_

Zayn glances at Harry nervously.  “Langhill?  But—”

“Just keep watching,” Harry snaps.

 _“We are about to show you a few images from the crime scene,”_ the woman continues. _“We warn you that some of these images are somewhat graphic in nature.”_

Zayn has seen it all, but even he’s squeamish watching the next set of photographs flash across the screen.  He covers his eyes with his hands once because it’s awful and why anyone would want to view these particular images is beyond him.

“Look at the damn telly, Zayn,” Harry commands, voice ice-cold.  “Go ahead and admire your handiwork why you have the chance.”

Zayn regards him curiously, then reluctantly peeks at the screen.  And that’s when he gets it.  Harry’s got the programme paused, and the image before him isn’t as graphic as some of the previous ones, but it’s stomach-churning for an entirely different reason.  He sees a close-up of what looks to be a calf with two clear puncture wounds on its neck.  One glance at Harry tells Zayn that they both know what caused the wound.

“Vampire bite,” Zayn whispers.  Harry presses ‘play’:

_“…And authorities surmise the events occurred sometime after midnight….”_

“Midnight?” Harry repeats, speaking over the reporter on the scene.  “Hey, you were out then!  Maybe you saw something suspicious.”

“Turn it off,” Zayn croaks, leaning against the counter for support.  He knows he didn’t do this, but it’s certain that some vampire did, and that’s bad enough.  He looks pleadingly at Harry, but the other boy’s eyes are glued to the screen.

_“At this time, police are unwilling to say whether they believe these attacks are human or animal in nature and whether they believe there are any links between the incident here and the one in Holyrood Park back in January where there were similar bite marks found on a wild goat….”_

“Turn it off,” Zayn orders lowly.

Harry ignores him.  “Evidence of a vampire bite found in Holyrood Park in January,” he muses.  “Hey, isn’t that near where you lived back then?” he asks sarcastically.  “What a small world.”

“Turn it off, Harry.”

 _“…also searching for any connection between what happened at Langhill today and the mysterious disappearances of cats and dogs around the city in the past year,”_ the newsreader continues. _“Liam Payne, head of the local chapter of the SSPCA, or Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, claims that the troubling trend—”_

Zayn’s found the ‘power’ button on the set, and everything comes to a screeching halt…finally.

It’s horrific, the way Harry looks at him.  It cuts right through any remnants Zayn’s got left of a soul, chills him to the core.  “Get out,” Harry says quietly.  “Get out, and I won’t go to the police—not that they’d believe me anyway,” he huffs.

“It wasn’t me,” Zayn pleads.  He needs Harry to believe that he wouldn’t so something like this. 

“I find it fascinating that all this started right when you moved to Edinburgh,” Harry states coolly, and Zayn’s not sure how he’s supposed to answer that.  It looks bad, but it’s all circumstantial.  “But let’s say that you’re innocent of this last attack,” Harry allows, “or even the others.  It still means that ‘one of your kind’ did this.  One of your friends did this, and maybe you were the one who brought them here.”

“Harry—”

“Don’t say anymore, Zayn; it doesn’t matter,” Harry cuts him off, sliding off the stool to do this face-to-face.  “We’re done, and if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve known this day has been a long time coming.  It’s better we end it now…before someone gets hurt.”

 _Before someone gets hurt_ …Zayn could laugh at the irony.

Zayn had thought Harry cared a little more, but the other boy appears relatively unaffected while Zayn feels as though his unbeating heart just got torn out of his chest.  It isn’t fair how detached Harry seems when Harry was the one who kept pushing this from the start.  And then, when Zayn finally decided to fall, there was nothing there to catch him but cold, hard reality.  He thought it would be different this time.  He really did.

Zayn spends the next couple of hours gathering up his belongings and piling them in a corner while George whimpers sadly and Harry reads yesterday’s newspaper like nothing’s happened.

And then he calls Cal.  He needs someone to help him with his shit, but even more than that…he needs answers.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Where is he, Cal?”

“Ah dinnae ken, Zayn.”

“I don’t believe you, Cal.”

“How no’?”

“Because you’re his bloody _girlfriend_!” Zayn shouts, pounding his fist on the table in frustration.  “He’s not going to just shove off and not tell you where he’s going!”

“Fine!” she snaps back, wagging a finger at him.  “Oan yer trolley, then!  Ah’m nae taking this crap when I’ve offered tae let ya crash at my gaff, Zayn Malik.”

Zayn can’t be arsed to correct her on his ‘new’ surname.  It’s not like there’s anyone to hoodwink in Cal’s flat anyway.  (Speaking of which, Zayn’s still wondering how they managed to find a flat this posh in the Old Town so quickly, but he’d wager compulsion played a significant role in the process.)

“Tell me why Louis came to Edinburgh, then.”

“We came together, Lou an’ me,” she tells him, looking forlornly around the fully-furnished flat that seems emptier than the one he just left somehow.  It hasn’t got an ounce of character which is hard to believe considering the people residing in it.  “And in case you’ve forgotten, ah’m Scottish.”

“Yeah, but you’re from up north, Cal.  Why are you here, in Edinburgh?”

“Tae see you, a’rite?” Cal says exasperatedly, looking absolutely gutted and now Zayn’s feeling guilty.  “Ah missed ya—we both missed ya, Zayn.  Hadnae spoken tae ya in _yonks_ before we got tae Edina.  I worry aboot you, ya bas.”

“Don’t, I can take care of myself.”

“Aye, good wan,” she guffaws, grey eyes looking almost silvery as she combs back a loose lock of lavender hair.  “Good tae see ya have no’ lost yer sense of humour.”

“Cal, I’m fine,” he insists.

“Aye, _now_ ye are, now that ah’ve managed tae keep ya in blood bags.  ‘Course ya still managed tae muck up everything with yer boy apparently.”

“He’s a human, Cal,” Zayn says tiredly.  “It wasn’t going to work anyway.”

“Aye, keep telling yerself that, hen.  Ye should’ve told the boy ye loved him.”

“I did actually,” Zayn divulges, and it feels like he’s reopening a fresh wound, twisting the knife deeper and deeper.  “I told him yesterday, and he didn’t say a Goddamn word, alright?”

Cal tips her head and presses a finger to her lips.  “That does no’ sound like Harry.”

“Well, that’s how it went down,” Zayn grumps, but he’s not ready to talk about the details now.  Not yet.  “But let’s change the subject.  Did you hear about what happened at Langhill this morning?”

“Aye, but Louis had naught tae do with it if that’s wit yer thinking.”

“And you’d know that because…?”

Cal doesn’t want to answer, looks absolutely pained, so Zayn assists.  “He left last night and you haven’t seen him since.  Isn’t that right?”  Cal nods her head, and Zayn can feel his mood darkening.  “Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“No’ a word.”

Zayn wracks his brain.  The only thing he can come up with is that Louis may not have done this alone.  “Was there somewhere else he went?” Zayn questions.  “Someone else he spoke about seeing?” 

There’s fear in Cal’s eyes for the first time as she wets her lips and prepares to answer.  “Aye, he did go oot weekly….in the middle o’ the night.  Said he was hunting, but he wisnae, ah can tell ya.”

“Did you ever follow him?”

“Ah did, aye, a wee ways, but then ah felt awfy an’ turned around.”

Zayn curses their poor luck.  If Cal would’ve followed the missing vampire, they would’ve had something.  “What direction was he headed?”

“East…via Princes Street.  Followed him doon tae the end.  Was nae place tae go but up the Hill fae there.”

“Calton Hill?” Zayn confirms.  “And did Louis mention anyone ever?  Anyone you didn’t know, perhaps?”

Cal plays with the pendant on her choker while she mulls it over.  “Aye, there was a bloke who kept bothering Lou, ringing him up at all times of the day an’ night.  Louis said they had some business venture gaun, but he’d go intae a mood after every call—a _blackness_ , ah’d label it.  It was no’ like him at all.  He’d become surly and just altogether aff his heid.”

“B-blackness?” Zayn stammers, an indescribable dread filling him.  “Why did you use that particular word?”

Cal shrugs.  “Ah’m no’ sure how else to describe it.”

“Fuck,” Zayn curses, shaking with rage.  “Forget him,” he orders.  Cal is confused, but he can’t explain.  Even if he could, he wouldn’t want to give credence to his suspicions.  She’s probably too young to know the stories anyway.

“I love him, Zayn.  You cannae give up on him!” Cal pleads, teary-eyed.  “He may no’ be an angel, but he isnae a devil neither.”

“I get it, Cal,” Zayn tells her, a deep sadness filling him for which he feels there is no return.  “I love him, too.  I love him like the brother I never had.  I love him like he’s the only family I’ve got left, but this….”  He shakes his head because it’s too awful to even think that Louis might have turned away from humanity to get mixed up with anything to do with the Blackness clan.

“Cal, here’s my advice for you:  If you know what’s best for you, you’ll just forget that you ever met Louis Tomlinson.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn tries calling Harry again, but it’s no use.  He’s not answering—not for Zayn, at least.

So Zayn throws himself into his art, putting every ounce of emotion he’s feeling into his sculpture.  He spends more time in the studio working than anywhere else and after ten days of exhaustive effort, he can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Even unfinished, this work of art is better than anything he’s ever done. 

Still, he’s left feeling drained.  It’s like he’s given all of himself to this piece so that now he feels like he has no feelings left, that they’ve all been absconded by the damn sculpture.

That night as he’s sleeping on Cal’s sofa, Zayn has the dream again.  He’s choking, sputtering, drowning.  But this time, it doesn’t stop when he feels like he can’t take another breath.  No, the reel keeps playing….

 

Louis is there, unmasked although the stench of chlorine is burning Zayn’s nostrils even with his faulty mask on.  _‘I can’t let you go,’_ his best mate cries, hovering just above his neck.  _“You’re the brother I never had, and I can’t watch you go like this, I’m sorry_.” 

With the last strength within him, Zayn squeezes Louis’ arm, tries to console the weeping soldier.  Zayn knows he’s nearing the end, and he thinks it’s better to leave this world with his best mate by his side than alone.  But then, blue eyes turn to crimson, as Louis whispers: _‘Please forgive me’…._

 

Zayn jolts awake then.

It’s the first time he’s relived the whole ordeal, everything that happened on that lonely field in Belgium including the pivotal moment when Louis had turned him.

Of course, he always knew that Louis had turned him on the battlefield; Louis had told him the story from his own lips as soon as Zayn was coherent enough to hear (and willing to believe) it.  But actually seeing the scene just now changed everything, made him realise that love was what made Louis choose to ‘save’ him.  And maybe it’s crazy, but Zayn never really thought about the decision from Louis’ perspective, never dreamed how difficult it would be to make that choice.

He’d always focused on his own pain, on his own grief.  Becoming a vampire at 22 and dealing with its aftereffects had always felt like a Sisyphean punishment.  All alone, he felt compelled to roll that rock up the hill, only to have it come crashing down on him again and again.

And maybe, just maybe, he needs to figure out how stop doing it. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

“It’s good to see you again, Zayn,” James welcomes him with the same jovial smile.  “Is there anything you’d like to share?” he asks, trying not to look like he knows the answer in advance.  Zayn hasn’t exactly been forthcoming in Invisible Choir meetings in the past.

Zayn nods shyly, doesn’t dare glance at Harry or Liam (although at least the latter isn’t giving him the cold shoulder).  “Yeah, I…I do.”

He talks about having survivor’s guilt following a painful incident when he was younger.  He talks about feeling lost and in pain and coping with all of it in less than desirable ways.  He doesn’t talk specifics of course, but he’s honest enough that he feels excessively lighter when he’s done speaking, a cathartic release a century in the coming.

And if Harry’s chair is empty when Zayn finally has the courage to look in his direction, well, Zayn’s sure he had a good reason for ducking out early.

 

**\+ + +**

 

On Friday, Zayn finishes his sculpture and informs his advising faculty member that it’s completed and will be ready to move in a few days for the upcoming Grand Opening of the Centre for Innovation.

After work, he returns to the flat to find Cal weeping at the kitchen table.  He finally wheedles out of her the root of her unhappiness:  Louis has been missing for over two weeks now.  She also reveals that the wee hours just before dawn on Saturdays were when Louis would steal out.  He always returned before noon though, would slip into their bed while Cal was still ‘asleep.’

But now, she knows it’s highly unlikely he’ll return by noon.  Indeed, she’s afraid he’ll never return again.

Zayn rests his head on Cal’s shoulder as he leans in to embrace her.  He assures her everything’s going to be alright even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

 _Louis._  He’d always been by Zayn’s side through everything, thick and thin.  He was always there with an impish smile and a cheeky comment that would have Zayn laughing despite himself.  They had been partners in crime once—more misdemeanours than high crimes though apparently Louis had moved on to bigger and better things.  Zayn couldn’t rescue him now if he wanted to, not with the crowd he was recently cutting about with.

_Rescue him._

But wasn’t that exactly what Louis did a century ago on the battlefield—rescue Zayn?  Strangely, before he dreamed about Louis the other night, Zayn never once considered the risk the other boy took saving him.  After all, even a vampire isn’t likely to survive bomb-blasts or grenades.

He ingests a blood bag and leaves a note for Cal, telling her he’s visiting a friend over the weekend.  This may be his only chance (even if it’s just a hunch), and he can’t throw it away.  He’s already lost Harry, already lost all of his family.  There’s got to be a way he can reason with his oldest mate because Zayn isn’t going to lose another person he loves.

Not if he can help it.

He makes the hike up Calton Hill in good time, sticking mainly to the roads and well-worn trails.  He thinks of Harry without even meaning to, thinks about how one look from the boy made Zayn feel powerful, and it had little to do with the fact he was a vampire.  No, when Harry looked at him, Zayn felt like a power for good rather than bad.  He felt he was capable of the impossible. 

Zayn wishes he had bottled up that feeling because he could sure use a bit of that particular mojo at the moment.

Light’s just breaking when he reaches the top.  It’s a clear day, and he can even see the rust-red arches of the Forth Bridge stretching over blue water just to his right.  It’s too early for tourists and too late for the riff-raff of Edinburgh’s semi-criminal class so he leans against one of the columns of the National Monument and waits impatiently.

It isn’t long before someone arrives, sliding up behind him as Edinburgh wakes below.  “Z-Zayn?  What are you doing here?” a familiar voice stutters.

“I need to talk to you,” Zayn says plainly, pleadingly.  “It can’t wait.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid it’s gonna have to,” is the reply before Zayn feels a blow strike the side of his head and the vibrant view turns to black.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

  
_I've got your memory or has it got me?_   
_I really don't know_   
_But I know it won't let me be_

-“She’s Got You,” Patsy Cline

**(Harry)**

 

Harry is good at waiting.

This is a particularly positive attribute today since he’s been stuck in the waiting room of his doctor’s office for a very long time.  He pours another cup of burnt coffee, being careful not to fill the cup too high this time and reviews some notes.

“Harry?” a nurse with a clipboard calls, sticking her head out of a door on his far left.  “Harry Styles?”

She gives him a sympathetic smile like she knows and Harry hates it.  It’s the main reason he hasn’t told anyone about his…condition. 

They run a few tests, but the doctor doesn’t really tell him anything new.  They’re managing his symptoms, and he knows what to expect.  The doctor runs through a list of questions Harry’s almost got memorised now, and he parrots back the answers:

 _No, it hasn’t gotten worse.  No, it hasn’t gotten better.  Yes, he no longer gets the headaches from the medication.  Yes, he’s sleeping better._   (That last one’s an untruth maybe, but he knows Zayn’s absence has more to do with the worsening of insomnia than anything else.  He’ll get used to it eventually.)

When he leaves, it’s with yet another prescription and a suggestion to seek out counselling.  Harry informs his doctor he attends weekly meetings of a support group (but doesn’t mention that he’s never told anyone about the fact he’s ill.)  The man seems pleased by that piece of information, and it makes Harry happy.  He likes to please people.  The doctor gives the same sympathetic smile the nurse did earlier, then lets him go.

He’s not five feet into the waiting room before he sees a woman with short periwinkle hair.  He takes one glance at her, then keeps right on walking.

“Harry!” she shouts, jogging effortlessly to catch up with him.

“What are you doing here?” he accuses once he’s realised he’s not likely to be able to shake her.  “Have you been following me?  Is Louis around?”  His eyes dart up and down the hall to make sure there’s no one hiding in the shadows.

“Simmer, hen; it’s just me,” Cal replies, and Harry lets out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.  “Louis bolted two-and-a-half weeks ago.”

“So how’d you find me?”

“Ah was oan my way doon the hall tae collect some supplies actually when ah smelled ya.  Ye have a deid recognisable scent in case Zayn’s no’ told ya.”

Harry’s not sure how to react to that information, but he’s got more important things to worry about presently.  “Did you, um, hear anything?” he asks hesitantly, remembering she’s got an acute sense of everything and Harry wouldn’t rule out that she might be able to hear conversations through doors.  He wouldn’t rule out anything at this point.

“Nae danger there, but ah wisnae born yesterday.  Ah ken this isnae an animal hospital so ah figure there’s something yer no’ telling me, no’ telling anybody, eh?”

Harry swallows, feels like the floor’s collapsing beneath him. 

Cal seems to understand.  “Have a coffee with me if yer no’ busy?” 

 

**\+ + +**

 

They get their drinks, Harry deciding on a mango passion fruit tea because he had his fill of (burnt) coffee earlier.  He almost suggests they sit out on the patio but remembers it’s a sunny day, and he’s with a vampire.  Besides, he’d rather not have any passers-by eavesdropping on this particular conversation.

“So, wit’s eating at ya, love?” Cal asks as soon as they’re seated.  It reminds him of Zayn, how neither of them waste any time getting to the point.

“I’ve been diagnosed with HD,” Harry declares, and it’s weird, saying it aloud.  It’s even stranger confessing it to Cal who is really more Zayn’s friend than his.  He’d always thought he’d tell Liam first or maybe his mum—and only when he absolutely had to. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath as grey eyes turn even foggier.  “HD as in Huntingdon’s Disease?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms, relieved that she’s at least heard of it.  He hopes it’ll make it easier for him to do this.  She seems to be a good listener and isn’t giving him that sympathetic smile he loathes so he continues on with a little more confidence.  “You probably already know it’s a progressive disease that affects the brain.  I’ve probably got a decade, give or take a few years, before the symptoms start to take over.”

“Symptoms?” Cal echoes carefully. 

“Yeah, um, maybe you’ve noticed my clumsiness?  I mean, I was never the prince of agility over here.”  Harry lets out a self-deprecating laugh, but Cal’s face remains unchanged as she waits for Harry to go on.  “But it’s gotten worse over the last year.  I keep dropping things, tripping over my own two feet,” Harry tells her like they’re discussing someone else’s condition.  “Sometimes I struggle to control my emotions, but I guess it’s not that bad… _yet_.”

There’s a cruel finality to the last word that twists and echoes inside him.

“It’s genetic, int it no?”

“Yeah, my dad passed away from it when I was twelve.  He wasn’t living with us for a while before that though….”  Harry bites his lip, swallows down the pain that’s been there ever since he can remember.  He doesn’t like to think of it too often because he’s fortunate to have all the things he’s got.  He’s blessed really, and the day he forgets that is the day he’ll really stop living. 

“That must’ve been difficult tae go through with yer da.”

He takes a sip of the tea in front of him and almost chokes on it.  “Yeah, that’s why I haven’t told anyone; I know how hard it can be on everyone else, and I…I don’t know.”

Cal nods understandingly, and it gives him the strength to press on.  “So before uni, my sister and I went for genetic counselling together in Manchester—there’s a pre-symptom test, you know.  Gemma was clean, thank God, even saw the sheet myself.  I needed a retest; first test was ‘inconclusive’ or something.  They told me to return in a couple of weeks.”

“An’ that’s when ya got the positive result?”

Harry shakes his head, drags his finger around the rim of his drink.  “No, I didn’t want to know.  I didn’t want it to influence my life decisions either way.”

Cal cocks an eyebrow at him, letting him know she can see right through his bullshitting.  “So yer maw an’ sis just respected yer decision?  Left it at that, eh?”

“I lied to them,” Harry confesses, the shame hot on his cheeks.  “It was the only real lie I’ve ever told them.”  He lets out a shuddering breath.  “I told them I was retested, and that I was clean, too.  I figured, what was the point of worrying them, you know?”

“It’s no’ for me tae judge ya, hen; Ah’ve no’ walked in yer shoes.”  She taps her long, square-tip nails on the table to punctuate her advice.  “So when’d ya change yer mind—aboot the retesting?”

“Last summer,” Harry admits, and Cal’s brow hitches again ever so slightly.  “I went when it didn’t make any sense for me to keep explaining away the symptoms any longer.  I figured if the disease had presented this early, I ought to be starting medication for it as soon as possible.”

Cal looks down and Harry knows what she’s about to ask next before a single word leaves her orchid-coloured lips.  “There’s nae cure?”

“No, but the symptoms can be slowed down.”  Harry rubs his hands together likes he’s cold.  Maybe he is.  “I may have some good years ahead of me, but eventually, I won’t be able to take care of myself.  I won’t recognise friends, loved ones.  I’ve come to terms with it—well, accepted it anyway.”

Cal purses her lips like she doesn’t completely believe him.  “So tell me how much all this has tae do with yer recent break-up then?”

“We were never really together, Cal; I’m sure Zayn’s told you that.”

“Think yer talking pish there, laddie.”

“Ask him,” Harry grunts. 

“Ah’ll have a square go—when he gets back fae his holiday, that is,” Cal adds.  “But he did say he confessed his feelings, an’ that you clammed up.  Ye were scared, eh?”

“I wasn’t the only one.  He’d been freaking out for days about how little time we had…he tell you that?” Harry snorts.  “What was I going to do?  Tell him we had even less than he thought?”  Harry clears his throat; he can’t go there or he’s going to lose it completely.  “So you, uh, said he went somewhere for the summer holiday?”

“Nae, it’s just a wee one, ah think.  He’s done for the semester, but he’s still working at Molly Bloom’s.  Onyway, he finished his sculpture, then bolted straight off.  I’ve no’ set yaks on him since Friday.”

Harry bites his lip.  “You won’t tell him, will you?  About the fact I’m…not well, I mean.”

“For such a cannie lad,” Cal sighs, “yer a right numpty.”

“I’m not sure exactly what that means,” Harry admits, a small smile itching at his lips, “but I’m going to disagree with it on principle.”

Cal laughs heartedly at that as she rises from her chair.  “I won’t say anything,” she promises.

He breathes a little easier than he had done a second ago.  “Cheers, Cal.”

She shrugs.  “It’s no’ my secret tae tell, Harry.”

“No, I mean….”  Harry struggles for the words to convey how he feels.  “Cheers for that, of course.  But also, thanks for not treating me differently…now that you know and all.”

“But ah could say the same thing, eh?” Cal returns with a wink.

Harry knows what she’s referring to.  And despite what he told Zayn after Langhill, he doesn’t think Cal or Zayn could ever be involved in something so horrific.  They’re not monsters—even if Zayn sometimes calls himself one.  (He still wouldn’t trust that Louis character of course.  He looks pure evil as far as Harry’s concerned.) 

Yes, the vampire thing doesn’t really bother him.  He would have ended it with Zayn anyway, regardless of Langhill, regardless of everything.

Because the truth is that Zayn was right:  their relationship had time constraints; the vampire just didn’t know how limited their time together truly was.  Harry had no right to hold him under the circumstances.  It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right.  Perhaps, he should have been more careful at the start, but as they say, love is blind.  In his defence, Harry hadn’t expected Zayn to fall that hard, hadn’t expected Zayn’s ‘forever’ to be so much longer than his own. 

But such was life.

Cal tells Harry to call if he needs to talk, then gives him a hug.  “We all have our secrets, Harry.  They dinnae define us if we dinnae let them.”

And really, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more profound.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Harry complains, eyeballing the massive pile of laundry in the corner.  He’s been meaning to do the wash for days, been meaning to do a number of chores lately.  He’ll get around to all of it…eventually.

“Here, wear this,” Niall suggests, peeking out from Harry’s wardrobe.  He tosses a pink-striped Oxford at Harry.  “It matches your eyes.”

“You’re a riot, you know that?”

“Oi, I’m just stating the obvious,” Niall replies, shrugging his shoulders.  “Don’t shoot the messenger.  But, between mates, you really should consider getting some sleep once in a while, eh?  Either that, or I’d start investing in eye drops if I were you.”

“Cheers for the advice I didn’t ask for.”

“Anytime, mate.”  Niall stands there expectantly for a few moments, but Harry doesn’t move from the edge of the bed, nor does he make any effort to put on the shirt.

“Harry, just go to the fecking thing.”

“Which ‘ting’ are you referring to?” Harry asks sulkily.  Maybe he’s being an arse, but then again, Niall was being a bigger arse for busting into his flat uninvited.  (Harry’s going to have to remember to get that old key from his former flatmate when he gets over his hump.)

“You know perfectly well which thing I mean.  Dontcha be giving me your lip, ya eejit.”  Niall bungs some more clothes at him and now it’s almost comical the way Harry’s sat on his bed in his boxers, nearly covered in random clothing items.  “Zayn deserves the support from us.  He’s had a tough time of it of late.”

“You talk to him recently?”

“No, but I had a shift with him last week, and he was in bits.  He looked like shite—which for Zayn is a bloody accomplishment, if you know what I mean.”

Harry nods warily.  He knows _exactly_ what Niall means.  “Fine, just thought you’d be on my side.”

Niall rolls his eyes.  “Ahhh, shut yer gob.  You know I love ya, but I’m proper convinced you were the one who sabotaged what you had going with Zayn.”

Harry takes the sock off his head and side-eyes his friend.  “That what he told you?”

“Didn’t have t’ tell me, mate.  I know you.”  Just then, George launches onto the bed.  He seizes the sock on Harry’s shoulder between his teeth and sprints off with it down the hall in the flash of an eye.

“See, even George is against me going,” Harry protests with a long-suffering sigh.  “Besides, I already have plans.”

Niall snorts.  “Well, stall the ball—heading out for some savage craic then?  Who with, eh?  Patsy Cline, Dusty Springfield and Adele maybe?”

“And a glass of wine,” Harry grunts as Niall tsks at him, hands folded over his chest.  “Fine, give me one good reason why I should go.”

“I’ll give you two, eh?  Because Zayn wants you there and because you’ll fecking regret it if ya don’t go, ya eejit.”

“Fine,” Harry relents, grabbing the shirt and pulling it over his head.  “Throw me a new pair of socks, will you?  Let’s get this over with.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

They meet Liam there, at the new Centre for Innovation.  The building’s pretty spiffy, he has to admit, and looks every bit its moniker.  The place is massive, but it’s teeming with guests by the time they arrive.  From what he can tell, it’s mostly professors and other intellectuals, representatives from Edinburgh’s high society, a few low-level royals, and university administrators.  There is also a large smattering of students though so he doesn’t feel completely out of place.  He says hullo to a few classmates, then follows Liam and Niall into the centre of the room.

That’s when he sees the sculpture that’s attracting so much attention, and he’s completely bowled over because there’s no way that someone could have _made_ this.  There’s quite a crowd around it, in fact.  It’s been roped off with fancy blue cord which is annoying because Harry wants nothing more than to touch it, to run his hands along the smooth and rough lines, to marvel at its magnificence.

“Zayn, did this?” Liam asks incredulously, jaw hanging open.  “ _Our_ Zayn did this?”

The title of the mixed-media piece is “Absolution in the Digital Age.”  Two nearly life-sized figures are the focal point.  They’re a steely grey in colour, twisted abstract human forms with realistic faces.  One kneels with its head down, clutching the hand of the other who is standing before him.  There’s a Madonna-like quality to the standing figure as he gazes down with compassion towards the crouching form.  A kaleidoscope of colourful, transparent squares hang in vertical garlands, each sporting a series of numbers or bits of binary code.  They dance about the figures, adding a magical, almost fairy-tale-like quality to the showpiece.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

It’s simply stunning, and Harry’s nearly brought to tears then and there.  He’s not the only admirer though.  Everyone looking upon the piece is mesmerised by it.  He overhears bits of conversation, how observers compliment the concept and execution.  Some are drawn to the way the light reflects off the polychromatic squares, captivated by the pure aesthetic beauty of the piece. 

“It’s bloody amazing, isn’t it?”

Harry looks up from his reverie to find James beside him.

“Brilliant,” Liam agrees with the counsellor.

“Pure class,” Niall tacks on.

James rubs his chin with his thumb.  “You must be so honoured, Harry.”

Niall lets out a breath.  “Jaysus, thought I was the only one.”

“Me too,” Liam adds as they all nervously study Harry’s face, and then the statue, and then Harry’s face, and then….

Harry gets it.  It’s him.  There isn’t a doubt in his mind that the standing figure in the piece is modelled after him, and they just assumed that Harry knew, that he must have posed for it.  (He didn’t.)  Zayn must’ve relied on one of the many sketches he’d done of Harry while they were living together.  Either that, or the artist sculpted every detail of Harry’s face from memory. 

And really, Harry’s not entirely certain what he’s supposed to do with this newfound information.

“So where is the reticent artist anyway?” James inquires, searching about the crowded room. 

“He’s no’ here,” a silver-haired Cal apologises, joining the little group out of nowhere.  “Harry, can I talk tae ya outwith?”

Harry accepts her hand gladly, relieved to be led away from the truth he doesn’t want to face.  “Yes, Cal?  What is it?”

“Zayn.  H-he’s gone,” she stammers out as soon as they reach the pavement outside.  “He’s disappeared—just like Lou!”

 

**\+ + +**

 

There’s a sinking feeling in Harry’s stomach, one that speaks of impending doom and dashed dreams.

They’re at the kitchen table now, having gone back to his flat to discuss the situation.  His mobile buzzes, and it’s a text from Liam.  Although his best mate doesn’t mention it specifically, Harry suspects his concerns begin and end with how Harry was apparently Zayn’s muse for his sculpture.  Harry’s still processing that, to be honest, but he texts a reassuring response anyway so Liam doesn’t worry.

Then he waits for Cal to catch him up to speed.

Cal explains how she’d waited for Zayn to return on Monday, right after she left Harry at the hospital.  She didn’t think too much into it when Monday turned into Tuesday and she still hadn’t heard from him.  Zayn was like that.  He was prone to ‘disappearing.’  But now, the whole week’s gone by, and she hasn’t heard hide nor tail of him.  She’s checked the bars, checked the art studios, checked Molly Bloom’s, but he hadn’t shown for his last shift.  He hadn’t even called. 

So now she’s worried.  So is Harry.

“Did you fill out a missing persons report yet?” Harry tries.

“Aye, that’s brilliant—pure barry, Harry,” Cal scoffs, sarcasm dripping from every pore.  “Ah’ll just go an’ ring the polis then, ask if they’ve seen a missing vampire with a manufactured identity aboot town, eh?” 

“No need to snap at me, Cal,” Harry responds shortly, pacing and massaging his temples because this was _not_ what he was expecting when he woke up this morning.  He didn’t foresee the shock that accompanied finding himself in sculpted form at a massive event, and he definitely hadn’t anticipated searching for someone he’d been trying to avoid.

Cal must get it because she apologises.  Then they’re back to brainstorming again.

“Can you think of anywhere you haven’t checked yet?” Harry asks, absently standing in front of Zayn’s bedroom—Zayn’s _old_ bedroom.  He pushes the door open, half expecting to find Zayn there, reading or working on a sketch.

But he isn’t.  The room’s empty; it’s cold and bare and seems to spite him.

Cal comes up behind him in that silent way of hers.  “The only place ah hadn’t checked was yer flat,” Cal shares, “an’ he’s obviously no’ here unless yer hiding him in the wardrobe.”  As if to illustrate the absurdity of her claim, she marches across the room, flinging the door of the wardrobe open dramatically.  But then she shrieks as a small animated form jumps out, a blur of fur and hazel eyes.

“George, why were you hiding in there?” Harry scolds.  “You’ve scared Cal half to death.”  George bounds towards him and leaps into his arms, and that’s when Harry remembers.  “Oh yeah, he doesn’t like vampires.  Guess he can sense that you lot smell different or something.”

“He grew tae love Zayn,” Cal reminds Harry.  “But then, that’s an easy thing tae do, ah reckon?”

Harry swallows down the lump in his throat.  “Yeah, he misses Zayn.”  He’s barely uttered the last word when the beagle wiggles out of his hands.  George trots back to the wardrobe and grabs a something from the floor of it with his teeth.  The pocket dog drags it along, his front paws tripping over the long, white fabric.  He has to stop more than once before he’s able to bring it over to his confused master. 

George drops the white bunched-up material at Harry’s feet, then stands on his back legs excitedly like he’s expecting a treat.

“Uh…thanks, George, but I don’t really need a pillowcase right now, mate,” Harry tells him gently, but the dog doesn’t budge.

“Is it a pillowcase, Harry?” Cal doubts, “looks more like an undershirt tae me.”  She takes a few steps to better examine it.  George growls as she comes closer, collecting the material between his teeth possessively as Cal looks to Harry for help. 

Curiously, Harry coaxes the item from the hound’s jaws, and he can see that Cal’s right—it _is_ a shirt.  Harry can tell the dog’s been using it as a blanket because it’s got bits of the beagle’s short coat on it and is slightly chewed at the collar and ripped at the hem.  It’s definitely seen better days.

But then again, so has Harry.

“Let me see it a moment,” Cal demands impatiently.  Harry tosses it at her, and she sniffs it.  “Aye, it’s Zayn’s,” she confirms.  “It mostly smells like yer wee dug there, but Zayn’s scent is definitely there.”

Cal snaps her fingers then, says what they’re both thinking.  “Do ya think George could track Zayn’s scent?  Lead us tae him mibbe?”

It seems ridiculous because Zayn’s most likely been missing about a week, but Harry knows beagles have tracked scents much older than that.  Besides, the conditions are perfect for tracking; it’s been cool and wet the past week so maybe there’s a chance.  Moreover, George knows Zayn’s scent like the back of his paw and would be motivated to find him if his choice of cuddle blanket is anything to go by.

“It’s worth a shot,” Harry replies, trying not to get his hopes up too high because, after all, this is the longest of long shots.  “Let’s take him back to your flat and see what happens.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

They do exactly that and it isn’t long before George picks up the scent.  They follow him on foot, Harry hurrying to catch up with the hound who keeps pulling on the lead.  Cal follows behind, trying to give the animal a wide berth.  Once or twice, George loses the scent, usually at intersections, but just when they think all hope is lost, George’s ears perk up again and he’s off, air scenting and trotting as fast as his little legs can carry him.

When they get to the foot of Calton Hill, George halts, nose to the ground as he diligently tries to pick up the elusive scent.  Cal collapses in a heap and Harry relaxes beside her, his knees feeling a bit wobbly (not that he’s going to admit as much).  They take a minute to rest, quietly observing George while he busies himself with his assignment.  The dog glances at the vampire distrustfully a few times but then focuses back on his work.  He’s clearly decided to tolerate Cal’s presence…for the time being at least.

“You tired?” Harry asks, still trying to catch his breath.  He unfastens another button on the pink oxford Niall forced on him this morning and rolls up his sleeves.

Cal shakes her head slowly from side-to-side.  “Nae, It’s just…ah followed Lou here once, an’ ah told Zayn aboot it right before he left.”  She pulls her knees to her chest.  “Harry—do ya think Lou had something tae do with Zayn’s disappearance?”

Harry feels sick again, that sense of impending doom returning in full force.  “Cal, you honestly don’t want to know what I think.” 

They don’t have time for further conversation, though, because George is pulling at the cuff of his trousers to let Harry know he’s back on the trail.  They make the journey up the hill in what has to be record time.  Harry feels a little winded, but he does his best to keep pace with his companions who seem to have limitless energy as they climb the final set of steps leading to the apex in five minutes flat.

George leads them to the unfinished ruins-like structure of the National Monument before stopping abruptly.  The small hound dog’s excited and alert now, as if he expects Zayn to appear at any moment from behind one of the pillars.  (He doesn’t.)  Harry reaches in his pocket to offer him a treat, and George contents himself with it while remaining alert for any sign of their missing friend.

“What now?” Harry asks tiredly, plopping down on the ground again because he’s completely knackered at this point.  He can’t believe that after all that, they’ve reached a dead end again.

“Well, ah reckon he either jumped or flew away because George isnae moving from that spot.”

“Very funny, Cal,” Harry groans, trying to massage out the cramp in his leg.  After a few minutes of convincing George that Zayn is nowhere around, they slowly start to make their way back down.

“Here, I can take George back,” Cal offers when they spot a taxi on the road after a while.  She scans him like his mum would do.  “You go ahead and take the cab; I’ll pay.” 

“I’m fine, Cal,” Harry insists, but just then the driver calls out the window:

“Ye can take the wee dug; I dinnae mind.”

They glance at each other, then dart towards the vehicle before the driver has the chance to change his mind.

“It was a good effort,” Harry sighs once they’re inside, “but now we’re back to square one again.  We’re never gonna find Zayn.”

“Zayn?” the cabbie echoes.  “That’s odd…ah had a Zayn in my cab last week, think it was.  He was pretty well pissed, practically had tae be carried by the burly bloke.  Anyhow, ah remembered the name ‘cuz it was different an’ another wan of the blokes—the smaller one—kept repeating it.  That wan was a sassenach as well,” he tells Cal, and Harry looks to the Scottish girl for help.

“Englishman,” she hisses.  She clears her throat, then nonchalantly comments, “we’ve a couple of mins we were hopin’ tae meet oop with, an’ it sounds like them.  Were they travellin’…er…South?”

“Nae, ah took them—the sassenach, that Zayn, and this big fella—tae Blackness Castle.  It’s only a forty-minute drive, but ah thought it was odd, they requesting tae go there.”  He glances in the rear-view mirror.  “The castle’s been closed tae visitors if ye have no’ heard.”

“Guess it’s no’ our mins then.”  Cal’s eyes gleam as she dares to make eye contact with Harry who can barely contain how ecstatic he’s feeling.  They’ve got an honest-to-goodness lead—even if the fact that Zayn was possibly with Louis before he fell off the face of the Earth makes him nervous.

Cal gazes warmly at George who is taking a well-deserved kip in Harry’s lap.  “As they say, ‘guid gear comes in sma’ bulk.’” 

“Translation please, Cal.”

The vampire rolls her eyes.  “Good things come in small packages, ya numpty.”

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 _'Cause even the stars they burn_  
_Some even fall to the earth_  
 _We've got a lot to learn_  
 _God knows we're worth it_

-“I Won’t Give Up,” Jason Mraz

**(Zayn)**

 

*One Week Earlier*

 

Zayn feels dazed as he awakes—dazed and cold.  The smell of sea water mixed with damp, mildewed stone assaults his nostrils.  The floor beneath him is hard, like a slab of concrete, and his shoulder blades ache as he tries to sit up.  He opens his eyes but nothing changes:  it’s still as black around him as it was before he lifted his eyelids, and for a moment, he’s afraid he’s gone blind until his night vision kicks in.  Even then, he can barely see a damn thing (or maybe there just isn’t much to see in the first place).

“Hey, you awake yet, Malik?” 

“Not so fucking loud, Tommo,” Zayn hisses back.  Everything seems amplified in the darkness, and his head is pounding.  Besides, he’s trying to _think_ , trying to remember how the bloody hell he got here.  He wracks his brain trying to retrace his steps.  He recalls finishing his sculpture and deciding to try to talk some sense into Louis.  He remembers climbing Calton Hill and hearing Louis’ voice behind him before—

“You sucker-punched me!”  Zayn’s seething.  He’s about two clicks away from beating the shit out of his so-called ‘best mate’ then and there.  “You fucking sucker-punched me!”

Louis sighs and Zayn can tell he’s only a few feet away from him, can just make out his form in the darkness.  “I was trying to save you, you ungrateful git.”

“You knocked me unconscious!”

“Yes, and by the way, do you realise how bloody difficult it is to _keep_ a vampire unconscious?  I had to knock you out God knows _how_ many times,” Louis complains but Zayn doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for him.  “I was afraid I was going to do some permanent damage, but I figured you’ve got enough brain cells to spare up there.”

“Why the fuck did you hit me in the first place?”

“Had to, bro.”

“Stop talking bollocks.”

“Look,” Louis says exasperatedly, “I panicked, alright?”

“What d’ya mean you _panicked_?  You almost broke my fucking jaw, dickhead.”

“Go on,” Louis scoffs.  “It’s not like it wouldn’t’ve healed in a few days anyway.”

“Fuck off.”

Louis scoots closer to him because of course he does.  “Is that anyway to treat your oldest mate, your comrade-in-arms, your brutha from anotha—?”

“Shut it, Tommo,” Zayn warns.  “I mean it.”

“Fine,” Louis huffs, “But if I knew you was gonna be this arsey, I wouldn’t’ve bothered saving ya.”

“You call _this_ saving me?!”  Zayn’s almost beside himself because _what the fuck_.  They’re trapped in what appears to be a black hole, and really, he should’ve known it was a mistake to go after Louis Tomlinson.  “Where are we?  What’s going on?”

“Somewhere in the bowels of Blackness Castle, but beyond that, I haven’t a bloody clue.  Except…since it’s Jaspar Blackness, I’m gonna assume he’s trying to break us or torture us for kicks.”

“Jaspar Blackness?” Zayn yelps because the power-thirsty whackjob was supposed to have been slayed ages ago in some sort of feud of the vampire monarchs.  “Are we talking _the_ Jaspar Blackness?  As in, ‘run the other direction when you see this freak-a-zoid,’ Jaspar Blackness?  As in, your psycho sire, Jaspar Blackness?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Well, if he’s trying to break us, let him know it’s working,” Zayn mutters, sliding his hands inside his leather jacket to stay warm.  “So how’d you get into this mess anyway?  And wait—why are you locked up if you’re part of his clan now?  Did you fall out of favour with the Dark Lord or something?”

“Very funny, Malik.  No, I was just pretending to work with him.  He’s got something on me, something I didn’t want Cal to find out.”

“Yeah well, whatever he was blackmailing you with,” Zayn snaps, “this is obviously _loads_ better than owning up to it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right; I don’t,” Zayn grumbles.  He finds the wall and presses his back against it, stretching his legs out before him and wiggling his toes just to make sure they’re all still there.  “Why didn’t you talk to me, Louis?  I could’ve done something, helped you figure out some other options if nothing else.”

“Talk to you how, Malik?” Louis challenges, real emotion seeping through his well-worn mask of cynicism for once.  “You wouldn’t let me see you and you never returned any of my bloody calls.”

“Oh.”  Zayn thinks of all the missed calls and suddenly he’s ashamed.  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Tommo.  I didn’t realise….”

“It’s alright.  You’ve been dragged into it anyway.”

Zayn’s not exactly sure what ‘it’ is at this point, and he’s not sure he wants to find out.  “So, uh, what happened?”

“I told Jaspar I’d help him with Langhill for starters; I didn’t show up.”

“Well that probably tipped him off that you weren’t on board with his plans.  I assume that’s why you split and didn’t tell Cal where you were going?”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs sadly.  “I didn’t want to get Cal involved for obvious reasons so I didn’t tell her anything.  I asked to meet with Jaspar again…up on Calton Hill where we used to go back in our uni days.  I’m sure that’s how you found me.”  There’s a pause and Zayn suspects they’re both thinking of simpler times—much simpler for Zayn because he was actually human back then.  “Yeah so, I was going to give him an excuse and try to buy some time, but then _you_ showed up.  Like I said, I panicked and hit you.  I was hoping they wouldn’t notice you were there, but they did and suspected the worst.”

“I was trying to save you, Louis.”

Louis sweeps his hand out in front of them, and Zayn can just make out the movement in the pitch blackness.  “You call _this_ saving me, Malik?” he mocks.

“Fair enough, Tommo.  Fair enough.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

They’re locked away, forgotten for an innumerable amount of days.  It’s impossible to count the hours because there’s no point of reference.  The only thing Zayn can say with certainty is that they’ve had time to explore every inch of the chamber they’re in.  There’s a urinal in the corner and a spigot for water but those are the lone two conveniences.  There are no windows, no beds, nothing to help wile away the endless hours. 

“Well, it could be worse,” Louis declares after what Zayn figures has to be a week.  The only thing that clues him in is the Hunger that’s starting to set in like an attack dog straining at its leash.  A few more days and he’ll be mad with it.  They both will.

In fact, Louis appears to be in a worse state than him—not that Zayn can really tell in the dark, but he can hear it in his mate’s voice and in his laboured movements. 

“Worse?” Zayn questions, his eyes zeroing in on the vague outline of his friend.  “How?” he spits out.  “I’d fucking love to know how it could be worse than this.”

“We could be in direct sunlight, like chained to a roof or something.”

“Don’t give the bastard any ideas,” Zayn grumps.  But the more Zayn thinks about it, he’d take the blasted sun baking him for half a day over this eternal blackness.  He’d take anything rather than this bleak nothingness.

The next time Zayn awakes, he hears Louis’ teeth chattering.  Zayn takes his leather jacket out from under his head where he was using it as a pillow, lays right beside the older vampire, and covers them both.  It doesn’t seem to do much good because Louis’ still shivering.

“Would it help if you drank from me, Louis?”  It’s taboo to drink from another vampire unless you’re in a relationship with them because it purportedly forms a powerful bond between the two beings.  Zayn’s never drunk from a vampire (unless you count when Louis turned him).  None of his partners were into ‘the kinky stuff,’ but he’ll be damned before he watches Louis slip away from him and do nothing about it.

“Cheers for the offer, Malik,” Louis grates out, throat so completely parched that it’s painful just to listen to him.  “Vampire blood doesn’t sustain so I can’t really see the point, but you can mark that down as one of the most tempting proposals I’ve ever had.” 

Before Louis nods off, he mumbles, “wake me when it’s time to leave, yeah?”

“Sure, Tommo.  No problem.”  Zayn doesn’t have the heart to tell him what he really thinks.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn hears several sets of footsteps on the other side of the wall, and his first reaction is fear.  But then the hope that they may be getting out of this hell-hole overtakes him, and he shakes Louis awake. 

“It’s time, Tommo.”

They listen as the footsteps stop.  Then, there’s the sound of chains and locks being undone on the heavy door to their prison.  Suddenly, a beam of light blinds them as voices bark incoherent orders, but all Zayn can do is revert to a foetal position as he deals with the sudden sensory overload.  A rough hand grabs him by his bicep and drags him out of the cell.

“Can you walk?” a gruff voice demands.  Zayn mumbles a reply and then his hands are handcuffed behind his back.  Once he can feel the torch shining away from him, he squints his eyes open and sees that one of the thralls, a giant of a man, has Louis bent over his shoulder.  They’re taken down into a tunnel and walk for a mile or more.  It’s an arduous and precarious journey, this underground trudge—especially with his hands secured behind him. 

There’s a heavy door, signalling the end of the passageway, and they’re taken into the cellar of what appears to be a large residence.  He’s dragged up two flights of stairs, and when he looks behind him, he discovers that Louis is gone although the giant who was carrying him is still present.

“Where’s Louis?!” he shouts, dropping and kicking as several hands grab at him.  “Where the fuck is he?!” 

The brute backhands him, and it stuns Zayn momentarily.  “Orders are that you’re to be taken to the master separately.  If you have any other ‘concerns,’” he says derisively, “you’ll want to address them to Lord Blackness himself.”

Zayn stops resisting and is taken to a bathroom upstairs.  The bath is already drawn and a few of Jaspar’s female thralls assist him.  He’s careful not to relax too much even though his eyeballs fucking ache from trying to adjust to the light, and he hasn’t fed in well over a week.  He needs to stay vigilant, though, if he’s going to come out of this unscathed. 

When he’s clean, they dress him in a sapphire-coloured robe and pyjamas that feel like heaven on his bruised and chafed skin.  The thralls are careful to make sure his hands or ankles are cuffed at all times, and it seems so easy for them, like they’ve done this so many times it’s become routine.  (That thought is particularly horrifying.)  After he’s dressed, one of the thralls pulls out a razor blade, and he almost shits himself before he realises they’re just going to shave him.  Even then, it’s impossible to relax while the girl gives him a close shave, almost delighting in her work.  She finishes up and then his hair is combed.  When Zayn sees himself in the mirror afterwards, he looks a new man.

The brute from earlier meets them at the door along with a handsome woman dressed like a housekeeper. 

“Come, Lord Blackness is awaiting your company in the drawing room,” she says not unkindly.  On their way, they pass by a gorgeous marble table at the foot of the stairs, and Zayn can’t help but stretch to swipe a finger over it, admiring its artistry.

“That was the very table on which a former owner of this manor, General ‘Bluidy Tam’ Dalyell, played cards with the Devil.”

Zayn glances up to see the speaker is stood at the doors to what he guesses is the drawing room.  “Did he win?”

The man delivers a crooked smile from across the foyer.  “Yes, he did…but the Devil always wins out in the end, doesn’t He?  Come, Mr. Malik.”

Zayn enters the room, ‘guided’ by the giant.  The room is like a shock to his system—it’s the exact opposite of the dungeon he was previously holed up in.  It’s gauche, garishly so.  Everything is gilt-laden from the tools in the hearth to the gaudy chandelier above their heads.  A rusty suit of armour graces a corner by a silk tapestry and Zayn half wonders if there’s anyone inside, spying on them.  He wouldn’t put it past this man from what he’s heard of him.

“Please, have a seat.”

Zayn hears the snap of one of the wrist bracelets and for a moment is foolish enough to believe they might be removing them.  Instead, he’s handcuffed to the metal rung of a high-backed chair.  His shoulder, already sore from the hard cement floor of the Black Room, is wrenched at an awkward angle, but he’s not about to show a sign of weakness.

Zayn’s gaze finally settles on the man seated in front of him.  Jaspar Blackness appears shockingly young for his true age.  Zayn knows that he turned Louis which means he’s half a millennium if he’s a day.  However, if it weren’t for the soulless black eyes, Jaspar could’ve passed for a rebellious rockstar with his shock of platinum hair, firmly-rooted sneer, multiple piercings, and attire straight out of a cyberpunk film.  He looks completely out of place in the drawing room of a manor house as he crosses one leg over the other, swinging a hobnail boot back and forth like a pendulum.

“Welcome to The Binns, Mr. Malik,” he susurrates in a voice uncannily bereft of any accent or cadence.  It’s as if any attachment to his human days has been erased.  “I trust you enjoyed your stay at Blackness Castle, but I think you will find this current residence a little more…comfortable, shall we say.”

“Go fuck yourself, Jaspar.”

Fangs drop—shiny, delicate, and porcelain-like.  They’re beautiful and terrible all at once, like a Beethoven sonata.  It’s hard to imagine that such dainty accoutrements could inflict so much damage—but they can.  He’s seen them in action from afar, years ago, and they most definitely can.

“Such a shame,” Jaspar tuts, regaining his composure.  “I know you’re probably a little testy since you haven’t had ‘a bite’ in a while,” he smirks, “but I was hoping you’d be more agreeable, more respectful to your _grandsire_.”  The last word brings the taste of bile to Zayn’s mouth because he never really thought about it that way before and he’d very much like to not think about it again.

“I also know things can get awfully dingy and depressing where you’ve been this past week,” Jaspar continues, steepling his fingers.  Zayn can see they’re painted black and perfectly manicured.  “So I’m going to let it slide.  However, I must tell you we only reserve the Black Room for our _very_ special guests.”

“I’m honoured,” Zayn replies with as much sarcasm as he can muster.  “Where’s Louis?”

“He’s fine.  I’m putting him up in a separate part of the house as I think it might be beneficial for the two of you to socialise with others.”  He sneers again, and his teeth sparkle.  “Think he’ll come around in a few days.  You, however, may need a little more…convincing, shall we say.”

Zayn eyes him warily.  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Malik,” he confides, leaning forward in his chair, black eyes shining.  “I’ve been trying to draw recruits, trying to build up the Blackness Clan to its former glory.”  He stands up abruptly and goes to a window, peering out onto a perfectly-manicured garden.  “The Council’s grown completely impotent; they no longer know what’s best for our kind.”  Jaspar smiles cruelly, runs his fingers along the window sill.  “I’ve already started a campaign of fear in the city here.  It’s time humans learnt their place in the hierarchy of things.  It’s time we stopped hiding in the shadows—don’t you think?”

All the strange occurrences of the past year are suddenly put into perspective.  Jaspar’s been behind it all, lurking just outside the city, observing it all from the comfort of his lair.  “Okay…so what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, I’ve been watching you from a distance for some time—ever since I heard you were back in Edinburgh—so it really was fortunate that Mr. Tomlinson brought you along with him to our meeting place.”  He glides back over to his former chair and now his full attention is on Zayn.  “I’d been lamenting for years that vampire descendants of mine—such as you and Mr. Tomlinson—have not been given a chance to claim their rightful place.  It was a grave error on my part, and I hope you are willing to forgive me for this small indiscretion.”

“What if I don’t want a ‘place?’”

Jaspar’s black nails dig into the armchair.  “Then you are welcome to become one of my thralls—a brainless, guileless creature made to follow my every bidding.”  He relaxes a bit, obsidian eyes flicker over Zayn’s face before raking over the rest of his body.  “You are extremely attractive so I have to admit the idea is most appealing; however, it would be huge waste of your gifts.”

“My gifts?”

“Yes, descendants of my blood rarely show any of the weaknesses associated with other lines,” Jaspar brags, rubbing his hands together in delight.  “They do not have a sensitivity to silver, can walk freely in the daylight, and seldom have allergies to wolf’s bane, garlic, foxglove, holly, and so on.  Add to that your own superior intellect and talents, and we have something quite extraordinary.”  Jaspar is studying him like he’s some kind of prize now, and it’s making Zayn feel ill at ease.

“Still, the choice is yours,” the older vampire remarks casually.  “Oh, and don’t fret—I will give you as much time as you need to come to your decision.  Now, if you’re ready, I will show you to your room.”

Jaspar rises abruptly.  He snaps his fingers and several thralls seem to appear from out of the woodwork.  Zayn is handcuffed again and roughly pulled to his feet by his assigned keeper.  He really doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow his ‘host’ up the grand staircase.  He’s too weak to do much else, and they’re surrounded by thralls eager to follow Jaspar’s every command at the drop of a hat.

Jaspar leads them down a long corridor, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet.  “I’ve put you up in the East Wing—I trust you’ll find the living arrangements more to your taste than those in Blackness Castle.”  He swings open a heavy door in an elaborate gesture.  “I hope you’ll accept my apologies, but it will be necessary for me to lock you in of course.  I’m sure you understand.”

Zayn was prepared for that.  What he wasn’t prepared for was the lux atmosphere of the suite—it looks like a room fit for a king (or an imprisoned king, perhaps).  His gaze sweeps across the ornate bedroom, his artistic eye catching the gloriousness of every detail visible to him.  There’s a beautifully-carved canopy bed to the right, purple and gold-striped wallpaper adorning all four walls, and what appears to be an _en suite_ bath to his left.  Solid bars guard shuttered windows, and sharp objects are largely absent from the room.  Otherwise, the quarters are luxury itself.

Zayn goes rigid as a horrible idea enters his mind.  “If you even _think_ about laying a hand on me, I’ll—”

“Don’t worry,” Jaspar pacifies him, rolling his eyes.  “I won’t touch you while you remain a guest in my house…unless you ask me to, of course.  Then, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“That’ll happen on the twelfth of never, just in case you’re wondering.”

“You really are delightful,” Jaspar cackles, eyes glowing like burning coals.  “But as for the accommodations, I just wanted you to be as comfortable as possible as you rid yourself of the pesky bonds of humanity.  I am very hopeful your stay here will cure you of them.  By the way, I assume you’re a bit peckish?”

Zayn’s ears perk up at that.  “Um, yeah…I am a bit.”

“Good,” Jaspar smiles, “I’ve left something to satisfy your thirst on the bed.  Enjoy your stay at The Binns, Mr. Malik!” 

Zayn’s handcuffs are torn off, and he’s shoved into the room as the door is locked and bolted behind him.  Zayn pulls at the door, twists the knob, but it won’t turn, and he knows there’s no way he’s getting out that way, especially when he’s so weak he can barely hold himself upright.

That’s when the smell of fresh human blood hits him even with the odour of perfume that permeates the room.

_So they left a live human with him.  Bloody fantastic._

He’s not sure how this is going to work, but he’s going to need to feed from the human or he’ll go mad.  He feels his temperature rising, the fever-like state that comes directly before the ravenous thirst sets in.  Admittedly, he’s gotten past this stage before, gotten to the almost numbness that follows (but never with a human this close in proximity). 

There’s a reason why he doesn’t drink from humans when he’s like this, but he doesn’t see how he has a choice as he takes a few tentative steps forward.  Jaspar, no doubt, wants Zayn to drain the blood-slave or unsuspecting creature left for him, thereby speeding along the process of Zayn divorcing himself from humanity.

Jaspar really is a jackass.

Zayn tiptoes the rest of the way to the bed and registers the gentle breathing of the human beneath the duvet.  He’s not sure how he should do this, not sure what the safest way is, but then it doesn’t seem to matter.  His mind starts to cloud the moment he turns down the top of the duvet, the moment a delicious and surprisingly familiar scent hits his nostrils.  But then he freezes as his worst fears are materialised.

Because there, sleeping peacefully, is _Harry_.

He goes into a wild rage then.  Zayn can’t even recognise the anguished shrieks emanating from his own chest as he pounds on the door until he can’t feel his arms anymore.  It’s reinforced metal so he doesn’t make a dent, but still he keeps on until his fists are cut and bleeding. 

Two strong arms wrap around his waist and drag him away.  Exhausted, he falls backwards and finds himself peering up into green eyes that might have given him comfort under different circumstances—under _very_ different circumstances.  Now, however, all he can feel is an indescribable agony paired with the uncontrollable Thirst within him.  It must show in his eyes, too, because Harry gasps and backs away.  Zayn can sense his fear like a predator reading his prey. 

Zayn half-runs, half-crawls to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.  There isn’t a lock, and there’s nothing to slide up against the door so he sits on the floor and leans against it, shaking and still hearing the steady pulse of the human’s heartbeat in his ears.

Not ‘the human,’ he corrects himself— _Harry_.  It’s Harry on the other side of the door, and he can’t let himself forget that.  Not even for a second.

 

**\+ + +**

 

“Zayn?”  The voice calling his name wobbles on the single syllable, but Zayn would still know it anywhere—even if he hadn’t seen the boy ten minutes earlier in the flesh.  “Is it you in there…or…or have they done something to you?”

Harry’s never seen him like this, not in the full throes of bloodlust.  He clearly doesn’t comprehend the danger he’s in either as Zayn tries to ignore the prickle of his skin and the burning in his throat.

“Zayn?”

_Drink from him._

“Zayn, are you okay?”

_Drink from him._

“Harry, stay away from the door!” Zayn croaks out, telling the voices in his head to fuck off as Harry scampers away.  He breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the bed springs creak because that means Harry’s on the opposite side of the room. 

He reflects on the only other time he had to endure anything even close to this—back when he’d had ‘flu’ and had to quarantine himself.  In reality, he was just biding his time, waiting for the worst of it to subside before he ventured out.  Luckily, Cal had saved the day, arriving with blood bags and a scolding Zayn deserved.

But that doesn’t even rate compared to what he’s dealing with now. 

This space is smaller and more confined, there’s no lock on the bathroom door, and Zayn’s in the height of bloodlust.  Moreover, he now fully knows what Harry tastes like, having drank from him once, and it’s like pushing a choice drug of the purest quality to a junkie. 

He thinks about the choice Jaspar offered him:  join him or become one of his thralls.  Zayn supposes the test of initiation has something to do with Harry.  Jaspar expects Zayn to succumb to his own feral instincts, to ravage or harm the human in some way.  On the other hand, Zayn could just get it over with and tell Jaspar he wanted to become a thrall now.  On second thought, however, Jaspar could transform Zayn into a thrall and then order him to drain Harry anyway which would be even worse.  In fact, anything Zayn did to take himself out of commission—he’d thought of at least five methods in the last minute or so—put Harry at risk and at the mercy of Jaspar Blackness.

Really, his only hope is to wait it out and hope for the best.  Maybe, he could think of a plan or a way out once his mind wasn’t clogged with the thirst for blood…if he didn’t go mad before then.

 

**\+ + +**

 

He smells food.

It doesn’t tempt him by any means, but it doesn’t make him sick either.  On the plus side, it distracts him from his own appetite and masks Harry’s smell.  Moreover, it means they must be feeding Harry so that’s good.  He can’t figure out how the food came though; that part puzzles him.  It seems unlikely that Zayn would’ve missed the door to the hall opening even inside the bathroom but there it is.

He puts his ear up against the bathroom door and listens just in case there’s someone else in the room, just in case there’s a chance of escape by a surprise attack.  He’s got his ear peeled to the door when there’s a loud knock on the other side.  Zayn curses under his breath because the sound’s echoing in his fucking ear drums now.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, just go, Harry,” he groans, rubbing his ear.  There’s a long pause, but Zayn doesn’t hear Harry walk away with his one good ear.

“Zayn, are you angry at me over what I said before I asked you to leave?” Harry asks, his voice wobbling again. 

Zayn doesn’t actually remember it that way.  He remembers being cast out or ejected from the flat.  He also remembers a lonely night way back in January when they shared beds and Harry vowed he’d never send him away, but he doesn’t say anything.  It’s clear Harry’s upset and it’s even clearer that they’re in the shitter right now.

“Because I didn’t mean it,” Harry chokes out.  “I didn’t mean any of it…I just…had to get you to leave, and I didn’t know how else to do it.  There’s something I should tell you, something you should know—”

“Don’t worry about it, yeah?”  Zayn swallows the lump in his throat.  “That’s all water under the bridge now.”

“Then why did you lock yourself up in there?”

“I haven’t, er, fed in a while.  I haven’t had a drop in over a week, and…and I don’t trust myself.” 

“You can feed off me!” Harry exclaims like that hasn’t been all Zayn’s thought about for the past several hours.  “I told you I don’t mind.”

“ _No,_ Harry.  I can’t control myself right now—like at all.  Give me a few more days, then we’ll talk about this.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath.  “Then what?  Then you end up like you did the day I found you on my doorstep?”

_Yeah, if I’m lucky._

“Just go and eat, Harry,” Zayn begs, wiping away a bead of sweat from his forehead and that’s definitely not a good sign.  “Look, I’m fine—we’re _both_ fine—as long as you don’t come near me or open this door.”

“But you’re going to die if you don’t feed!”

“I’m already dead, Harry.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry snivels. 

“I hate to break it to you, but odds are neither one of us is going to come out of this situation well so there you go.”  Harry snivels even louder then, and Zayn feels like a right ass.  He wishes he could put his arms around the other boy.  He wishes he could rock him to sleep as he used to, tell him to stop trying to solve the world’s problems for five bloody minutes. 

But even if Zayn _could_ leave his self-containment, Harry wouldn’t want him—not that way.  (Not any way.)

“Wait—I’ve an idea,” Harry blithely reports.  “I’ll be back in a tick.”

Zayn bangs his head against the cabinet because he just wants Harry to stay the fuck away from him.  True, he’s semi-coherent now but who knows what state he’ll be in later.

There’s a loud gasp on the either side of the door and Zayn peels his ear against the wood again.  It sounded like a cry of pain, and Zayn is about three seconds from bursting the door open even though that’s the last thing he should do.  He’s fucking frantic with indecision.  “Harry, you okay?!”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry calls out.  He’s on the other side of the room now.  “I’ll be right there!”  There’s some shuffling and clattering of dishes or the like before another knock comes a few minutes later.  This time, Zayn’s smart enough to remove his ear from the door.

“Zayn, can you open the door for just a moment?”

“No.”

“Zayn, listen to me,” the boy pleads.  “I know what I’m doing.”

Zayn almost laughs at that because Harry clearly has no bloody idea what he’s doing if he wants Zayn, a bloodthirsty vampire, to open the fucking door.  “I told you I don’t want any food, Harry.  I know you mean well, but it won’t help.”

“Zayn, don’t be so stubborn,” he tries again, “I’ll just leave it here by the door, then go back to the bed.  Let me know when you’ve got it, alright?”

“When I’ve got what, Harry?” Zayn asks, but the other boy doesn’t hear him.  True to his word, he’s probably on the other side of the bedroom now.

Zayn must be out of his mind because he dares to open the door just a crack.  He nearly slams it shut without looking because the scent of warm, fresh human blood hits him like a freight train.  He balls his hands into fists and a primordial sound escapes his lungs.  With every ounce of his being, he struggles to withhold himself from doing something he’d definitely regret in his right mind. 

But then he spies it…a small teacup filled a quarter-full with a viscous, crimson liquid.  He grabs at it like a ravenous animal before barricading himself in again.  His hands shake and the blood sloshes around in the cup as he shrilly yells:

“Did they leave this with your food?  Where’d you get this?”

“You don’t want to know,” is the answer and honestly, Harry’s probably right about that. 

Zayn puts the cup to his lips, lingering only a moment to revel in its distinctive bouquet.  The flavour of salted caramel crosses his palette as the life-giving liquid goes down smoothly, every last drop.  It’s Harry’s blood, and it’s fresh; there’s no denying that.  Zayn’s body responds almost instantly.  He feels stronger, empowered, emboldened.  There’s still a sturdy craving within him, the ever-present insatiable thirst, but he knows that it will lessen as his body metabolises what he’s just had.

“Did that help?” Harry asks nervously.  He’s at the door again even though Zayn told him to stay away.  Of course he is.

“Yeah…yeah, it did.  _Thank you_ ,” Zayn manages.  He wants to add that Harry shouldn’t have done it, that he was crazy to do something like that, but he’s too fucking grateful to utter anything along those lines.  “Give me a few hours, yeah?  I think I’m mostly alright now, but I want to be sure.”

Zayn curls up into a ball on the floor.  He’ll feel better after a short kip.  Fuck, he feels so much better already.

 

**\+ + +**

 

When Zayn ventures out of the bathroom, he finds Harry fast asleep.  There’s a broken saucer on the tray and a makeshift bandage wrapped around his forearm.  The sight makes something in Zayn’s gut twist. 

He carefully cleans everything up, discards the saucer, and replaces the rinsed teacup.  He’s just gripping the sides of the tray when he catches a whiff of something strange.  He takes a bit of the leftover mash with his fingertip and tastes it.  There’s a strong hypnotic present.  He’s sure of it.

He frowns and inspects the rest of the tray, but it appears to be safe and untainted—what’s left of it anyway.  He lifts up the tray and searches for a place to deposit it when he sees the dumbwaiter in the wall beside the bed.  He opens it carefully, expecting something to jump out of him (nothing does), and then carefully places the tray inside.  He presses a button on the outside and it zooms down to the kitchen or wherever its final destination is.

The presence of the dumbwaiter prevents the necessity of someone having to physically serve meals to Harry.  It’s not large enough to escape through, but it’s useful nonetheless.  He hopes it will continue to bring Harry food—and preferably dishes not laced with drugs, prescription or otherwise.

Zayn’s trying to decide if he should get into the bed with the sleeping boy or just have a seat on the chair when Harry stirs.  He beckons Zayn to join him.

And without further ado, Zayn does.

 

**\+ + +**

 

It’s been a long time since they’ve woken up tangled in each other’s arms—too long.  Their noses brush and Harry giggles softly.  It feels like old times (the best, not the worst).  But then, as the morning light trickles in through the shutters, they both remember.

Harry recounts his adventures while Zayn lays his head on Harry’s bare chest, memorising the sound of his heartbeat.  Harry tells how he went to the opening, how he’d never seen something so beautiful as Zayn’s sculpture in his life.  He describes how he met up with Cal, how George tracked Zayn’s scent to the top of Calton Hill, and how their cabbie gave them the missing clue they needed.  Next, Zayn learns of how Cal and Harry were ambushed as soon as they arrived at Blackness Castle, then brought here, all under the cover of the night.  Harry’s been in this bedroom for three days without explanation.  He doesn’t know what happened to Cal.

Zayn shares his side as Harry curls Zayn’s hair around his fingers.  Zayn details how he guessed Louis’ whereabouts, what happened on the Hill, and waking up in the Black Room with Louis.  He skims over the gruelling week plus spent in the pit of Blackness Castle, then outlines the conversation he had with their whackjob host.  Harry’s face loses some of its colour as Zayn tells him the little background he knows on Jaspar Blackness.

“I feel awful—blaming Louis when he was basically a victim the whole time,” Harry admits once Zayn’s finished.  “What do you think Jaspar was blackmailing him with?”

“I’m not sure,” Zayn admits.  “He’s been around for three centuries longer than I have so maybe it’s something that happened before we met.  Also, like, Louis hasn’t got a squeaky-clean past, but it’s not like Cal doesn’t know that.  He’s pretty up front about things ordinarily.”

“Except when it comes to whatever Jaspar’s got against him.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees dully, “except for that.”

“You know you look really young when you shave?” Harry says out of nowhere.  They’re facing each other now, impossibly close for two people who aren’t exactly friends or lovers or anything really.  Harry brushes his palm against Zayn’s smooth skin. 

“Hey, that tickles.”

“Sorry.”  Harry pulls his hand away but Zayn stops him, brings it back to his face as he gazes into the greenest eyes he’s ever seen. 

“I meant it tickles in a good way, ya knob.  Serial Apologiser strikes again, eh?”

Harry hums in response.  Zayn waits a beat, and then:  “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen you completely clean-shaven before,” Harry responds, brow furrowed. 

“Wow…deep,” Zayn deadpans.

“Shut it, you.”  Harry pinches Zayn’s cheek.  “And I don’t think I’ve seen you without a beard.”

“Like it?”

“I like you _every_ way, Zayn.”

Zayn clears his throat.  “You want to be careful—saying things like that, I mean.  I…I might get the wrong idea.”

“But what if it isn’t the wrong idea?” Harry asks in a coarse whisper.  “What then?”

“Harry—”

There’s a mechanical sound and they both jump out of bed like it’s the shot signifying the start of a race.  Harry gets it first—it’s the dumbwaiter, making its way up.  Harry pulls the serving tray out of the contraption and places it in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged before it.  Zayn settles across from him, the breakfast tray between them.

“Want some?” Harry offers as he starts to re-arrange everything according to his liking.  He lifts a carton of milk, and a sheet of stationery flutters onto the bed.

Zayn retrieves it and reads it aloud:

 

> _Mr. Styles,_
> 
> _Since you had a little accident with the saucer yesterday, I’ve had to order your future meals to be served with paper and plastic products. I apologise profusely for the abominable substitution; however, I assure you that I have only your well-being and safety in mind._
> 
> _Warmest regards,_
> 
> _Lord Blackness_

 

“Do you think he knows what I did?” Harry asks, eyes wide.  He glances at the bandage on his arm guiltily.

Zayn shrugs.  “Who knows with Jasper.”

Harry seems to accept the answer.  He picks up a plastic fork and goes to take a bite when Zayn knocks it out of his hand.  Harry’s eyes flash in anger.  “Hey—what’s it with the dick move?”

“Your last meal was laced with some type of hypnotic.  Give me a second to check this one out.”

“Yeah, so that explains why I’ve been sleeping almost constantly since I got here then,” Harry observes drily.  “Well, that’s disturbing—knowing that I’ve basically been out of it while a starved vampire lurked on the other side of that door.”

“Yeah, Jasper’s a real piece of work.”

Zayn sniffs the tea and gives it a pass.  He then starts tasting the various items on the tray.  “The potato hash and beans are fine.  So is the fruit.”  He dips the edge of the spoon into the bowl.  “Holy fuck!” he sputters, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.  “Steer clear of the porridge.”  He takes a drink of tea to clear his palette.  “Just let me try the eggs and then I think we’re done, yeah.”

“Don’t bother,” Harry says, pushing the bowl of porridge away from him and eying it like it might bite him.  “I wasn’t going to eat the eggs anyway.”

“Harry,” Zayn scolds, “you need to eat everything you can—everything that’s _safe_ anyway—because you don’t know if or when they’ll stop feeding you.”

“But I don’t know if they’re free range,” Harry whinges.  “They could come from hens that aren’t housed or cared for properly.”

“Are you being serious?  Are you really concerned over whether the damn eggs are free range or not?  Do you really think that’s our most pressing concern when a literal evil vampire lord is holding us captive?”

Harry thinks about it for a minute, scratches his head.  “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

Zayn wants to utter a string of expletives, but mostly he just wants to snog this beautiful creature because how someone so kind- and pure-hearted could exist in this fucked-up world is beyond him.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Somehow, it all becomes routine:  checking Harry’s food, reading Jaspar’s notes (and not responding to them unless you count the inappropriate picture Zayn drew with red crayon last time), and spending countless hours in bed talking.  Every other day, they receive fresh laundry from the dumbwaiter (not that Harry generally wears anything besides boxers, much to Zayn’s chagrin).

All things considered, things could be much worse.  But then, on the fifth day, they are.

Zayn wakes up, and he immediately knows he’ll need to feed very soon.  The itch has already started.  The only problem is that he’s stuck here with Harry, and he can’t ask him, not like this….

“You need to feed, don’t you?” Harry asks, stretching, and Zayn realises he’s been caught practically slavering over Harry’s neck. 

“Yeah, um, but it’s alright if you don’t want to, I mean.”  He clears his throat.  “I could, like, just wait or—”

“Shut yourself up in the bathroom again?” Harry supplies, voice still gruff with sleep.

“Well, yeah.”

Harry rolls his eyes.  “Come on, Zayn.  That’s ridiculous.  Besides, you and I both know that it’s better if you drink from me before you get too far gone.”

“I don’t want to force you into—”

“You’re not,” Harry insists emphatically, rolling over so that he’s right beside Zayn on the bed.  “I told you before that I’m more than okay with you drinking from me.”

“But why?”  Zayn’s furious with Harry now because he doesn’t get it.  “Why are you okay with being treated like you’re just a blood-slave or something?  Can’t you see that’s exactly what Jaspar wants?”

“You really want to know why?” Harry scratches out in his gravelly baritone.  “I’ll tell you then.  The idea that I might be able to help you in some small way means everything to me.”

“Yes, Harry, but _why_?” Zayn whinges.  “That’s not good enough.”

“Fine, I want you to.  I get off on it.  I get off on _you_.  Does that work?”

Zayn crumples on the bed, fists the sheets because he can’t hear this.  It’s pure torture.  “But I’m a vampire, Harry.”

“So?  I’m not afraid anymore,” Harry says resolutely, “I think I knew it as soon as I saw your sculpture.  You’re the one I want to be with, and I’m not gonna sabotage it anymore.  I just want to be with you while…while I can.” 

Harry’s breath stutters and Zayn holds him tight, whispers soothingly in his ear.  “It’s gonna be alright, babe.”

Harry lifts up, leans his forearms against Zayn’s chest, eyes shining.  “Kiss me,” he murmurs, lips looking plump and so very kissable.  Zayn can’t reach them in this position so he flips them over.  “God, I love when you do that.”

“Yeah?” Zayn prods, rolling his hips as the boy beneath him bites his lip.  “You like when I manhandle you, babe?”

“Yeah, I…ugh…I like it…,” Harry splutters, “like it so fucking much.”  He looks completely wrecked already and they haven’t even begun. 

“Yeah, swear for me, babe.  Show me how much you want it.”

“ _Fuck_ , Zayn,” Harry keens, arching his back off the bed.  Zayn rips off his shirt before sliding his thumbs inside Harry’s waistband.  “Wait!” Harry pants.

Zayn groans but pulls away, the snap of the elastic echoing as Zayn rolls onto his back and adjusts himself, squeezing his throbbing erection a little but it’s hardly a consolation prize.  Zayn knew it was too good to last.  For half a second, though, he was fooled.  He thought Harry wanted him—even if it was only out of necessity or convenience.

“I got carried away when you asked me to kiss you,” Zayn tells the trey ceiling.  “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Huh?  No!  I was just worried that they might be watching us,” Harry says before lowering his voice to a whisper.  “Do you think they’re watching us?”

“No,” Zayn says with relief, shifting towards Harry again.  “I had a pretty thorough search of the place the last couple of days while you were sleeping and found absolutely nothing.  I was worried about bugs more to be honest, but I didn’t find anything.  Besides,” he claims slyly, “I wouldn’t much mind if they _were_ watching.”

Harry opens his eyes wide.  “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t mind if they saw me choking on that big cock of yours…would you?” 

“Yeah…yeah, wouldn’t mind that,” Harry says breathlessly.

Zayn straddles Harry, placing his palms on his chest.  “What if I was riding that monster, huh?”  He wiggles his bum and Harry ruts up into him.  “What then?”

“Y-you riding _me_?” Harry questions hoarsely, eyes dark with lust.

“Yeah, why not?  Why should you have all the fun?”

Harry closes his eyes.  “God, want you so bad, Zayn,” he mewls.  “Don’t make me wait any longer.  It’s been too long already.  Way too fucking long since I felt you inside me.”

“Love it how you only talk dirty for me,” Zayn grins, patting him on the chest as he moves to the side so he can remove Harry’s pants.  “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a little longer, babe.” 

Zayn spits into his hand, then takes a firm hold of Harry as the younger boy keens again.  He jacks him off for a minute before slowly bending forward, holding Harry’s gaze the whole time before he licks at Harry’s slit playfully.  Then, he’s licking a strip down Harry’s shaft as the boy writhes beneath him.  Zayn has to hold Harry’s hips steady with one hand as he sucks him down, hollowing his cheeks as he takes in Harry’s length until a smattering of pubes are tickling at his nose, until he’s breathing in Harry’s musky smell.

He keeps up the steady pace, working him with a hand, using his tongue to flick swirls across Harry’s sensitive head.  He hums as he slides his lips up and down the hardness, smiling when Harry gasps.  Zayn feels Harry tugging at his hair, and he looks up annoyed only to see Harry licking his lips, and fuck, he can’t resist that.  Still, he continues to pump him with one hand as he goes up to let Harry taste himself on Zayn’s tongue. 

“Bite me, Zayn,” Harry whimpers when Zayn breaks away.  “Do it now, yeah?”  He bares his neck and Zayn’s tempted…but he has other plans.

“What if…what if I bit you somewhere else?”

Harry immediately tenses up.  “Wh-where?  Is it gonna hurt?”

Zayn licks slowly down his sternum as he swipes his thumb over Harry’s slit again, revelling in the amount of precum spilling from it.  “No, think you’ll like it.”

“H-how about you?”

“Fuck, Harry,” he groans closing his eyes.  “It’s all I think about, drinking from you there.”  Zayn ducks down again and closes his lips around Harry’s length.  He begins to slide his lips up and down around Harry’s girth at an almost feverish pace as Harry cries out and grips the bed sheets at his sides.

When Harry’s almost there, Zayn pulls off and locates the spot he’d been eying earlier on the inside of Harry’s thigh.  He zeroes in on it and then sinks his teeth into the flesh, almost gasping as the blood trickles into his mouth.  He sucks harder, gripping Harry’s thigh with his left hand while searching for his hard length with his right.  He starts pumping Harry as he drinks from him and soon Harry’s spilling over his hand with a yell, body spasming as Zayn milks him dry, then licks the wound on his thigh closed. 

He sits back a moment and admires his work.  Harry looks fucked-out, sweating and lip swollen from biting on it.  His dick is spent, still half hard, laying pink and heavy in a pool of cum.  And then, just below, are the two fang marks, two small punctures that looks so innocent by themselves and yet so naughty that high up on Harry’s thigh.

“Well, what’s your verdict?” Zayn teases when he finally makes his way back up the bed.

“Think I’ll never be able to be with anyone else ever again, to be honest,” Harry declares and Zayn should be flattered but he isn’t.

“Any human, you mean,” Zayn reminds him stiffly.  “Any vampire could bite you like that if that’s what you’re into, Harry.”

“Yeah, but could they look as sinful and heavenly as you when they do?  God, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Same, babe,” Zayn grins, leaning over to kiss him lightly on the lips.  “But you really should take a shower because you’re a bit messy, no offence.”

“Only if you take one with me,” Harry bargains.

Zayn smiles down at him in awe because he can’t believe he’s this lucky.  He really can’t.  “Think you got yourself a deal.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

After the shower, however, they crash-land back to reality.  Zayn waxes introspective as he paces the room, anything to get the pent-up, restless energy out, while Harry eats his now cold breakfast.

“You’re making me dizzy,” Harry complains as he takes a bite of a scone.  “Why don’t you have a seat or something?”

“I can’t,” Zayn grumbles.  “I can’t stop thinking of the situation we’re in, of the situation I placed you in because you met me.  Shit, I wish I could protect you from Jaspar, but it seems like no matter what I do, you’ll be at his mercy—unless I were to agree to go over to his side.”

Harry takes another bite and chews it slowly.  “Would he believe you?”

“There’s a way around that—if two vampires feed from each other, they experience a bond that’s hard to break.  You can feel that vampire’s emotions and thoughts on a higher level.”

“Like mental telepathy?” Harry proffers.

“Almost but every bond’s different,” Zayn shares, pulling from his limited knowledge of the subject.  “You still have your free will, of course.  It’s just that you’re more attune, like, with what’s going on in the other’s mind.”

“So he’d know if you were planning on betraying him, for example.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Does it last forever?”

“I’m not sure actually,” Zayn admits.  “Usually, it’s something lovers do to experience a…a greater connection.”  Harry waggles his eyebrows, and Zayn punches him in the arm lightly.  “But that sort of bonding could be used in other ways.  It would be a good safeguard for him, I guess.”

“Like a vow of loyalty without the whole creepy vampire-slave part of it?”

“Basically.” 

Harry hums contemplatively as Zayn rubs patterns into his flushed skin.  When his fingers trip over an extra nipple, he starts tweaking it.  He chuckles to himself, suddenly remembering an old bit of folklore he’d heard from Louis and some elder vampires on the continent. 

“Well, I’m glad you find my extra nipples amusing,” Harry chides, swatting at his hand.  “I would’ve thought you’d be over the novelty by now.”

“No, it’s just…I was thinking about something I heard a long time ago,” Zayn relates, slightly embarrassed now.  “It’s nonsense, I’m sure.”

Harry pokes his chin playfully.  “Now you have to tell me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but gives in.  “Well, according to Romanian folklore, a person born with an extra nipple—or nipples—is destined to become a vampire.  See, I told you it was total drivel.”  Zayn had expected Harry to laugh at the absolutely ridiculous story, but he doesn’t.  He’s gone quiet and reflective again and now Zayn’s worried.

“If I were a vampire,” Harry offers up, “then that might change things with Jaspar, wouldn’t it?  You could agree to join him without having to worry so much about me, right?”

Zayn’s mood immediately darkens.  “Don’t go there, Harry.”

“But why?  I was just asking, hypothetical like.”

Zayn sits up.  He can’t discuss this lying down.  “Because first of all, I don’t want to join Jaspar’s evil army, and second of all, I couldn’t turn you.”

“Why not?”

“Putting aside the fact that you’d hate me for it,” Zayn answers sternly, “you have the chance at a normal life, and I can’t do that to you.  You have so much to live for—whenever we get out of here.”

Harry’s bites his lip, and Zayn can tell there’s a lot weighing on him.  His mouth opens and closes like a fish several times before he finally gathers the courage to speak his mind.  “What if I _wanted_ you to do it.  What then?”

“Well, then I’d tell you absolutely not,” Zayn grunts back.  He shakes off the hand that Harry puts on his arm.  “Besides, there are certain risks involved with the process.”

“Like?”

“Well, the first risk is that it doesn’t work, of course.  Not everyone’s meant to become a vampire, Harry.  Also, the process involves draining a good percentage of a human’s blood before turning them, and there are so many things that can go epically wrong.”  Zayn coughs, throat tightening up.  “And well, then you’d be gone.”

Harry seems unfazed.  “What’s the other risk?”

“The second is even worse.  I don’t know how to say this, but sometimes people going through the transition… _change_.”

Harry laughs and rolls his eyes.  “Duh, they become a vampire, don’t they?”

“No, you idiot,” Zayn says fondly before he remembers the seriousness of their discussion.  “No, what I’m trying to say is that sometimes they’re different, like.  Sometimes, they lose the good in them; they become hardened—darker, I guess.

“Did _you_ change?”

“No, I was already an asshole to begin with,” Zayn jokes, and then it’s Harry’s turn to slap him.  Zayn catches him, though, holding his arm while rolling on top of him playfully.  They kiss again, long and lingering, savouring every moment like its borrowed time.

And really, it is.

 

**\+ + +**

 

As the days pass, Zayn grows weary because every minute spent in this room is a minute closer to when he’ll need to feed again.  The tick of the clock is a reminder that he’ll soon be _taking_ from Harry again, and if this isn’t the dictionary definition of a one-sided relationship, then Zayn doesn’t know what is.  Harry grows clingy, always wanting Zayn beside him as if the next moment might be their last together (and it well might).

And Jaspar…well, Jaspar just grows impatient.

The notes he leaves in the dumbwaiter are becoming more and more threatening, and Harry’s meals are now more adulterated than not.  Zayn surmises that the kitchen’s started to catch on so he starts flushing the more contaminated food items down the toilet in an effort to make it appear that Harry’s eating more than he is. 

Deep down, both of them know that something’s gotta give soon.  They can’t go on indefinitely like this, and even if they could, Jaspar could pack it in at any time.

It’s Harry, though, who says it aloud first.  “We need to get out of here, Zayn.  He’s not going to wait much longer for you to come over to his side; I can feel it.”

Zayn doesn’t try to argue because he knows Harry’s right.  Jaspar’s bound to see that his evil plan is going to pot.  The evil baron might be twisted, but he’s not dumb.

Harry coughs and Zayn can tell he’s nervous.  “I was thinking about something Cal said once….” 

Zayn groans because Cal excels at talking out of school.  Despite the fact that Zayn told her about a trillion times not to talk about ‘vampire things’ with Harry, she’s still indiscreet as fuck.  “So what exactly did Cal say?”

“Well, I was asking her about feeding habits,” Harry starts before something flickers in his eyes.  “Do you think she’s still alive…I mean, undead or whatever?  It just occurred to me that Jaspar might not want her.”  Harry looks pained.  “Didn’t he say something about wanting to convert you because you were ‘of his blood?’  She’s not.  Do you think that would make a difference?  Do you think he’s killed her or made her a vampire slave-thingy…what do call it…?”

“Thrall,” Zayn supplies, nodding.  “Yeah, I don’t know.  It already crossed my mind, but honestly, it’s hard to predict what Jaspar might do…or even what’s worse at this point.  I try not to think about it because if I did, I’d go mad.”  Harry clutches at him a little tighter.  “You really got close to her, didn’t you?” Zayn asks sadly, running a hand through his growing curls.  “But go on, tell me what she said about feeding habits that’s got you thinking.”

Harry clears his throat.  “Oh yeah.  So she was explaining that you all don’t need that much to sustain yourself.  She was going about the percentages of human blood required for optimal functioning and all that—”

“Only you two would discuss a topic like that, I swear to God,” Zayn cuts in because it makes him queasy just thinking about it.  Talking about percentages and all that shit is so impersonally scientific.  He doesn’t want to hear another word.  Unfortunately, Harry’s not going to let him off that easy.

“Anyway, she said that there’s a way to ‘supercharge’ a vampire—temporarily, that is.” 

“Yeah, Harry, but it involves draining a human of his or her life’s blood so I’m not sure where you’re going there.”

“That’s not what she said,” Harry insists stubbornly.  “She said that a vampire can get a powerful boost from drinking approximately a litre of blood, that’s only like one-fifth of the total volume on average.  It’s still in the safe range for a….”  Harry looks away for a second. “…for a healthy male adult.”

Zayn’s bullshit detector’s on high alert.  “You’re lying; I can tell.”

“I’m not; I’d tell you to Google it but you’ll just have to take my word for it under the circumstances.”

“You sure you’re not lying about the figures, that it’s safe for a healthy male?”

“Of course.”  Harry’s staring him straight in the eye now, and then it’s as if Zayn finally comes to his senses, realises what they’re talking about.

“Fuck, I am NOT discussing this with you!” Zayn snaps, stomping over to the sink because he needs to splash some water on his face.  He feels like he might be sick even though there’s literally nothing in his stomach except traces of Harry’s tainted meals from the taste-testing.

Harry’s arms wrap around him from behind.  “It’s worth a try,” he says gently.  “You said yourself you thought you might be able to bend those bars over the window if you were up to full strength, that Jaspar underestimated how physically powerful you were.”

“Harry, I…I couldn’t do that to you,” Zayn falters.

“Even if it might save me?  Even if it might save both of us?”  Harry leans his chin on Zayn’s shoulder and starts mouthing kisses along his jawline.

“Alright,” Zayn agrees despite his better judgment.  Part of him thinks this is the worst plan in history, but it’s the only one they’ve got unfortunately.  “Alright, after supper then.”  He twists around, grabs Harry roughly by the hips and then they’re full on snogging, grinding against one another while wandering hands explore each other’s bodies like it’s the first time…or the last.

But Zayn isn’t going to think about that.

After the first burst of passion, the rest of the plan is executed almost clinically.  Zayn doesn’t want to muck this up, and he can sense Harry’s tenseness as well.

Zayn forces Harry to eat and drink every last bite of his supper tray when it comes (after Zayn’s weeded out the bad items of course).  Before Harry gets into bed, Zayn makes sure he puts on the brown flannel pyjama set.  Harry complains at first but obliges him in the end; they both know he’ll need it once the blood loss kicks in.

“I’m going to drink from your neck,” Zayn informs him.  He can’t help but check in with the other boy one last time.  “You sure you still want to do this?”  Harry nods, eyes distant.

Zayn folds the duvet back to just below Harry’s shoulders, then sits beside him.  He yearns to kiss Harry again as he looks down at him, but he knows it will distract him from his purpose, and they can’t afford that.  He’s careful to find the right spot, one that will cause the least amount of pain while producing the best blood flow. 

Harry laces the fingers of his right hand with Zayn’s left.  He squeezes tighter as Zayn’s fangs break skin.

Zayn does his best to keep his mind unclouded.  He tries to disassociate himself from the process, to not indulge in the way Harry tastes, to only think of it as a simple transferral, nothing more.  After a few minutes, Zayn starts to feel something akin to an adrenaline rush.  He goes to pull away, but Harry stops him, hand gripping the back of his head.  “Go on, that’s not enough.  I’m fine.”

Zayn complies, drinking more and more from Harry until he feels Harry’s breathing slow, until he feels what Cal must have been referring to—that ‘supercharge.’  It’s like there’s a burst of light behind his eyeballs, like red blood courses through his own veins again.  He seals the wound then, double-checking to make sure it’s stopped bleeding before he draws back.

“Your eyes,” Harry exhales, lids heavy and drooping, “they’re like liquid gold.”

Zayn does kiss him then, briefly on the cheek, as he promises to return as quickly as he can for him.  He then goes to the window and it’s almost child’s play, bending the bars back and forth until they give and break away.  It’s only when he reaches the final bar that his body starts to show signs of fatigue.  Swiftly, he opens the window and rips apart the shutters before climbing out.

It’s tricky from there, scaling across the façade of the old Manor House, gripping onto ledges and recesses from carved crosses.  He’s not sure whether he should climb the short distance up to the balconied roof and look for another way in or make his way downward and hope for the best.  He’s still thinking about his options when he hears voices coming from an open window just to his right.

Cautiously, he scrabbles over, only to lose his footing when he’s almost there.  He can’t help the quiet _‘fuck’_ that leaves his lips as he swings helplessly three stories above the ground.  It would be a fall he’d most likely survive but one he’d wish he hadn’t if Jaspar or one of his thralls were to find him.  But just when he’s almost given up hope and is preparing for the worst, his toe hits upon a ledge, and he’s able to regain his footing.  However, the next words he hears are almost enough to make him lose his balance again.

“So did you have a reason for sending for me or were you just wanting to memorise my appearance?”  It’s Jaspar, and he sounds almost bored.

“Aye, but first…how’s Louis?” Cal asks, and Zayn’s never been more relieved to hear the sound of that beautiful Scottish brogue.

“Tomlinson?” Jaspar snarls.  “We’re keeping him alive…barely.  We told him we had captured you the other day and that nearly did the trick.  I’d say he’ll be ready in a day or two—faster if you come to your senses.”

“How so?”

“By accepting that you’re of my blood, Calyx,” Jaspar purrs, and Zayn finds that curious, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as the older vampire continues.  “As I was saying, Tomlinson is a breath away from joining me, and I have full confidence that Malik will bend, too…once he rids himself of his unhealthy attachment to the human.”

“His name is Harry.”

“What difference does it make what his name is?” Jaspar observes coldly, sinisterly.  “What difference does it make what _any_ of their names are?  He’s a lesser being, and I’m just waiting for Malik to finish him off for good.”

“An’ if he doesnae?”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” Jaspar snarls.

“Suppose it’s necessary,” Cal agrees, and Zayn nearly totters off the ledge because _what the fuck_?

“It’s alright, my dear,” Jaspar cajoles, his voice as slick and toxic as an oil spill.  “You’re still young; you’ll learn in time.  You’ll see how intoxicating power can be, and you’ll embrace it.”

“Ah want tae…want ya tae show me how good it can be,” Cal says seductively, and Zayn can’t believe his ears.  He’s never felt so betrayed or disappointed in his life.

“So you’ll join me, Calyx?” 

“Aye, I will.”

“I’ll get something to celebrate with then before we complete…the bond.”  If Zayn could see Jaspar right now, he’s sure he’d be wearing that evil sneer of his.  “I apologise, but I will have to lock the door when I leave, and my servants will still need to stand guard until I am certain of you.  You understand, of course?”

“Of course,” Cal responds silkily.

Zayn can’t take anymore.  He’s just creeping away from the window when he hears someone hissing his name.  He sees Cal at the window, peering up at him anxiously as she keeps checking behind her.

“Zayn!” she hisses, gripping onto the bars on her window.  “Quick, we dinnae have much time!”

“Cal, you can drop the act.  I overheard what you said—”

“Aye,” Cal cuts him off, “I was hopin’ ya would.”

Zayn regards her distrustfully.  “How’d you know I was here?”

“Because ah was stood right by the windae when ye was cursing, ya bas.  Ah thought Jaspar heard it too, but he dinnae, thank fuck.”  She glances worriedly behind her again.  “Now listen….”

Cal hurriedly explains how she alerted the Council before Harry and her left for Blackness Castle.  She had remembered hearing something attached to it in vampire legend, and besides, the fact that two vampires were missing under mysterious circumstances was probably enough to get the Council’s attention.  It was.

There’s a sound at the door as Cal finishes.  “Godspeed,” she whispers before disappearing from view.

He makes it down somehow, trying not to focus on the height when he makes the final drop into the garden in his bare feet.  He can see the towers of Blackness Castle only a mile or two in the distance, but it seems farther way—especially when he eyes the terrain and his lack of footwear.

His feet ache; soles torn as he approaches the Castle.  Even though it’s temporarily closed to the public, he still sees a smattering of people loitering around, taking photographs and enjoying the sun setting over the Castle walls.  He’s able to sniff out a vampire fairly easy (although the dark sunnies and warm clothing on a spring day was a massive tip off).  Zayn accosts him right there, and he’s afraid the man in the grey suit might send him away or think he’s a complete nutter since he’s dressed in pyjamas and no shoes.  It only takes the mention of “Jaspar Blackness” for Grey suit to start listening though.  Soon, the guy’s speaking into an earpiece.  Several cars arrive in a span of time that’s short but feels so much longer, and Zayn’s given a pair of shoes and a jacket from who knows where.

He doesn’t want fucking shoes, though.  He wants to get back.

When they finally arrive at The House of the Binns, Zayn’s not sure what to expect—especially when the leader of the Council insists on ringing the doorbell even though Zayn’s assured him that this is the house where they’ve been held captive, that there’s an elder who’s off his rocker inside and at least a dozen thralls. 

But whatever Zayn imagined in his wildest dreams, it wasn’t Cal answering the door, clutching on to a broken bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“He’s upstairs,” she states simply.  She seems calm in spite of the thralls clinging to the walls behind her—only her eyes show any sign of fear.  “Ah walloped him good,” she contends, holding up the champagne bottle with its jagged edges as proof, “but then he’s a vampire so.”  Cal and Zayn’s eyes meet before she directs her attention back to the man in the grey suit.  “Ah’ll lead ya tae him, eh?”

 

**\+ + +**

 

The representatives of the Council start sweeping the house, doing a “clean up” as they call it.  They find Louis and immediately attend to the weak vampire.  He looks like Death walking right now, but Zayn knows the blood he’s been given will have him back to his normal, undead self in an hour or two. 

That leaves Zayn to focus on one thing:  Harry.  He hopes the other boy still feels the same even though they’re free now.  Zayn can’t wait to tell him that everything worked out, that the Council’s got control of Jaspar, and that they’re going to be okay from now on.

Once the door to the bedroom is unlocked, Zayn rushes in to tell Harry the good news.  Harry’s still sleeping, though, so he goes to the bedside and cradles his cheek lovingly.  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he calls softly.  There’s no response, and it’s then he realises how cool and clammy the boy’s skin feels. 

“Haz, you okay?  Did you eat something you shouldn’t have maybe?”  He glances at the tray, but the items Zayn told him to avoid are still untouched.  He shakes Harry’s shoulders a little because now he’s scared.  “Babe?”

Harry stirs, eyes blinking open before they fall shut like they’re too heavy to lift.  He opens his lips and a faint whisper leaves them:

_"_ _May I reach/That purest heaven, be to other souls /The cup of strength in some great agony....”_

“Haz, stay with me.  You’re just feeling a little wonky from the blood loss.  Tell me what to do, yeah?  Maybe I should find you something to eat…?”  Harry doesn’t respond, though, just keeps mumbling poetry from chapped lips that appear to be tinged with blue.

_Oh God._

He doesn’t even notice Cal at his elbow until she speaks.  “Wit’s he blethering on aboot then?”

“He’s reciting a poem,” Zayn manages feebly, “’The Choir Invisible.’”

Cal turns to Harry in horror.  “Shut yer gob, ya right numpty,” she admonishes, and it works.  Harry briefly opens his eyes, smiling weakly.  “Ah’ll have none of that.  There’ll be nae singing in nae fuckin’ choirs—visible or no’—on _my_ watch.”

“I did it,” Zayn declares with sudden realisation as he clutches at Harry’s hand.  “Oh God, I did this to you, didn’t I?”

“S’alright—was my idea,” Harry rasps out.  His skin is so incredibly pale, no colour at all in his usually ruddy cheeks.  “And if I don’t….”

“Don’t talk like that,” Zayn pleads.  “You’ll be fine; you’re just feeling a little faint, that’s all.  You’re _fine_ , Harry.”

“See after George, yeah?  He loves you.”  Harry closes his eyes and then Zayn feels a faint pressure on his hand.  “But I love you more.”  Harry’s hand falls limp then, and it’s as if Zayn’s whole world comes crashing down on him. 

“Harry!” Zayn shouts, collapsing his head on his chest and sobbing.  He’s revived by the sound of Harry’s heartbeat.  But instead of the steady rhythm he’s used to, it’s fluttering in his chest like a sputtering machine.  “He’s alive, Cal,” he chokes out through tears.  “He’s alive!”

Cal’s sliding a pillow under the boy’s legs and of course, Zayn should’ve thought of that.  He would’ve if he wasn’t such a basket case right now.  Cal must sense it because she takes charge, placing the back of her hand on the forehead of the boy lying prostrate on the bed.  She then presses two fingers to his carotid, counting the beats while studying the second hand on the clock.  “Harry, love, stay with me,” she urges.

“He’s okay, right?” Zayn asks desperately, wringing his hands as he steps away and lets Cal attend to the boy he loves.

“Aye,” Cal agrees, “But a clean shirt’ll do him if we dinnae get him tae hospital straight away.”

“I’ll go call an ambulance?”  He waits for a second for Cal to respond, but she seems preoccupied.  There’s a strange expression on her face that he can’t place, one he’s never seen before.  It’s a mixture of grief and resolve.

“Aye,” she says, coming out of her trance.  “Aye, go now an’ ah’ll stay with him.”

 

**\+ + +**

 

The paramedics must have called ahead because the ambulance is met by a large team of medical staff as it pulls up to A&E.  They’ve been following behind in one of the Council’s black sedans, and everyone quickly alights at the kerb except the driver.  Grey Suit accompanies them, bringing along a fake badge (or maybe a real one for all Zayn knows) and a convincing story to make it appear that Harry was the victim of an animal attack.

“Resus Two! Stat!” a woman in sea green scrubs barks out, but she is the only one speaking above a normal tone.  He thought the whole scene would be louder, more chaotic, but it’s not like that at all as Harry is carefully moved onto a trolley and whisked away.

Louis and Grey Suit take charge, and Zayn is more than okay with that.  He’s emotionally and physically exhausted right now, any boost he received from the feeding earlier has long since dissipated.  Besides, the two seem to have everything well in hand while Cal busily fills out paperwork.  At one point, Louis compels a nurse who starts asking too many questions and even Grey Suit seems impressed with his finesse.  The member of the Council hands Louis a business card on the way out, telling the blue-eyed vampire to contact him if he ever wants a job.  Zayn thinks Louis’ just gonna chuck it, but he doesn’t.  He slides it into the pocket of his shirt, looking more than a little chuffed.

Then, they sit anxiously in the crowded waiting room, watching the ticking of the clock.  Zayn’s no stranger to clock-watching—he’s done enough of it in the recent past.  It does feel strange not to be staring at purple and gold wallpaper though.  He probably should be feeling some sort of relief that they’ve all escaped, but he really can’t give two fucks about that, not while he hasn’t heard anything about Harry. 

Across from him, Louis and Cal hold hands.  They are unusually quiet, and it’s off-putting.  Zayn’s supposed to be the quiet one, not them.

Someone comes in asking for a ‘Mr. Louis Styles,’ and Louis doesn’t miss a beat (although Cal does side-eye Zayn when no one else is looking).  They all listen in as the junior doctor informs Louis that they’re treating Harry for hypovolemic shock due to the rapid and extensive blood loss.  He fumbles over his words a little, and Zayn wonders if it’s because he’s relatively young, if experience hasn’t quite hardened him yet.  

They’re asked if any of them is a blood match and Louis coughs awkwardly as he shakes his head.  

The junior doctor inquires if there’s anything the team needs to be aware of in regards to Harry’s medical history.  Curiously, Cal rises and goes off somewhere to conference with the doctor without a word to her companions.  Louis hitches an eyebrow but Zayn just shrugs in return.  He has no idea what information Cal could possibly have that would be relevant, but Zayn’s learnt not to doubt her.  If Calyx Dawn says she knows something pertinent, she fucking knows something pertinent.

And then, it’s the waiting game again.

“Harry’ll be fine,” Louis states, like he’s convincing himself.  Still, it’s good to hear someone say it aloud.  “I’m sure you were careful not to take too much, and he looks about the healthiest human I’ve ever seen.  He’s like the poster boy for male virility, that one.  I mean, _I_ definitely would.”

“You’re saying that about your ‘brother,’ you tosser.”

“Oh shit…I forgot,” he grimaces.  “Forget I said anything, yeah?”

“Hey,” Zayn begins as a new thought occurs to him, “you never told me what the secret was that Jaspar was blackmailing you with, the one you didn’t want Cal to find out.”

Louis looks like he’s been cornered.  “I…I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Considering all that’s happened, I think it would be a prudent choice.”

“Prudent choice?” Louis mocks.  “Where the fuck did you learn to speak, Malik?  Miss Martha’s Finishing School for Young Ladies?”  He shakes his head.  “Your Victorian petticoat is showing again.” 

“Tommo, stop trying to avoid the subject.”

“Fine,” he begrudges, lowering his voice significantly.  “I’m Cal’s sire.  We good now?”

Zayn snorts.  “That’s absolute bollocks.  I introduced you to Cal, and you know it.”

“That’s what you think,” Louis sighs, glancing about the room still filled with nervous relatives.  “Hey, have a cig with me, yeah?” 

“Sure thing,” Zayn replies.  “Would you like me to light your imaginary cigarette with my imaginary lighter or—?”

Louis rolls his eyes.  “Amateurs,” he laments, “I’m surrounded by fucking amateurs.”

He leads Zayn outside anyway.  They’re given a few odd looks from strangers and Louis promptly tells them all to piss off _.  (“You’d think they’d never seen a couple of lads in pyjamas and dress shoes, for fuck’s sake…”)_  Louis goes up to the first person he sees smoking and asks if he can bum a fag.  Then, before Zayn knows it, the bird’s giving him the whole pack, even going so far as to light the cigarette for him.  Now it’s Zayn’s turn to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t reject the cigarette Louis lights for him using the butt of his own.

“You were saying?” Zayn prods, taking a puff to get the filter to burn faster.  It’s a bit of a bitch to smoke since he’s become a vampire, mostly because he’s always forgetting to inhale.  Half the time, the damn cig burns out before he’s done with it.  But Zayn’s never one to back down from a challenge.

“Before I tell you that, I should probably mention that the Council isn’t too happy about the fact that Harry knows so much.”

Zayn feels a sense of dread.  “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, that it’s going to have to be taken care of.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!”

“No, don’t worry.  They’re not going to hurt Harry…it’s just that someone’s going to have to ‘adjust’ parts of his memory when he comes to.”  Louis hesitates.  “I’m not sure how extensive it’ll be.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Zayn grunts.  “Now what’s all this about you being Cal’s sire?”

“I was living in London—this was back in the fifties, yeah?  Cal was probably holidaying there; I don’t know and she doesn’t remember much from that time, thank God.”  Louis stops to takes a drag and exhale the smoke in perfect rings.  “Yeah, so I saw Cal lying by the side of the motorway—there was an accident or something.  I was just going to drink from her; I don’t know what spurred me to actually _turn_ her.  Maybe it was love at first sight or some shit like that.  Maybe I was just bored because you were on one of your cyclic sulking episodes and weren’t speaking to me.”

“So you just turned her and left her there?” Zayn asks disbelievingly.

“No, of course not!” Louis scoffs, like the rest of the story isn’t morally ambiguous.  “So, yeah, I was going to stay with her of course, show her the ropes like I did with you, but someone saw me, and I legged it.  There were too many people loitering about, and there was nothing I could do.  I swear it.”

Zayn believes him.  “Go on.”

“Well, I came back to the scene as fast as I could.  By that time, she had already been ‘adopted’ by a coven so I just let it go.  You can imagine my surprise when you introduced me to her a few years later.”

“She was in the same coven as my ex,” Zayn says, still in shock by Louis’ revelation.  “I had no fucking idea you turned her, bloody hell.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know…I was ashamed—believe it or not—and I didn’t want her to find out,” Louis answers, looking at his feet.  “I was selfish and didn’t want to lose her.  I couldn’t bear to see her resent me like you do…and don’t bother to deny it,” he adds when Zayn’s about to protest.  “You get into your moods, and then you blame me for making you this way—and _yes_ , before you say anything, it is my fault you’re a vampire, but there’s piss all I can do about that now.”

“I don’t feel that way, Tommo,” Zayn confesses, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted from his chest.  “Not anymore.”

Louis looks hesitant.  “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been an idiot,” Zayn confesses, putting out his cig.  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about a lot of things lately and decided I need to let some shit go.  I think Harry and his fucking IC helped me realise that.”

“IC?”

“S’not important.”

Louis throws his arms around Zayn like he can’t hold it in anymore.  “I fucking love you, bro,” he declares, face smashing into Zayn’s.

“You should tell Cal; I’m sure she’ll understand.  She’s not a stubborn prick like us.”  He carefully untangles himself from his best mate.  “And on the plus side, maybe she’s got a daddy kink, Tommo.”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that, Malik,” Louis groans, but he’s smiling as they walk back into the hospital.

Cal eyes them suspiciously as they re-enter the waiting room.  “Should ah ask or nae?”

Louis swoops in and gives her a peck on the cheek.  “I’ll tell you later, love.  Zayn was just giving me relationship advice, that’s all.”

Cal seems less than impressed.  “That’s a wee bit like the blind leading the blind as they say, int it no?”

“Probably,” Zayn agrees good-naturedly.

“By the way, it’s about time I thank you two,” Louis says.  “I mean, you did save me some trouble there—back at The Binns, I mean.”  Louis keeps on, ignoring the incredulous looks from his friends.  “You know…organising an escape plan and all that.”

“Louis Tomlinson,” Cal starts exasperatedly, “ye couldnae organise a piss up in a brewery.”

Zayn cackles.  “Hate to say it, but she’s got a point, Tommo.  She’s definitely got a point.”  Zayn drums his fingers on the arm of the chair and then turns to Cal.  “So…did you find out anything?  Is Harry going to be able to come home soon?” 

Cal isn’t quick on the draw so Zayn just ploughs on.  “I rang up Liam when we were checking in—he’s the one who runs the animal shelter, Tommo—and he’s been keeping George at his place.  Luckily, Harry dropped his key off with Liam and asked him to check on George and his Lavender plant because he might have to go away for a few days.”

“More like a few weeks,” Louis snorts.

“Did ya tell him ye were at hospital?”

“Figured I’d wait,” Zayn tells them.  “Liam gave me an earful, though, chuntering on about how Harry should’ve returned his calls before we fucked off on holiday,” Zayn tells them, forcing a laugh.  “Anyway, I was thinking I should go fetch the little fellow before it gets too late, like, but I don’t want to leave if Harry’s gonna be ready to go soon and—”

“Zayn,” Cal interrupts, looking pained.  “Harry’s no’ coming home any time soon.”

Zayn catapults to his feet because he can’t just sit there and listen to this crap.  Harry’s going to be fine.  He knows he is.  Zayn’s thought it through, and Harry’s going to be _fine._   “No, Cal.  You’re talking rubbish.  I was careful, and Harry swore that amount was safe for a healthy male!”

“Aye,” Cal says quietly.  “It was probably safe for a _healthy_ male, Zayn.”

And suddenly Zayn gets it.  He collapses back into a seat and cradles his head in his hands.  “He’s sick, isn’t he?  He’s sick, and he’s been hiding it, hasn’t he?” 

Cal’s silence in the only answer he needs.  Suddenly, it’s as if all the pieces fit together:  Harry’s odd behaviour whenever they spoke of ‘time’; his pushing Zayn away once it got too serious; his artful dodging when Zayn accused him of lying before Zayn drank from him that last time.

“Fuck, like how sick are we talking?” Zayn chokes out, looking up through the crevices between his fingers.

Louis sits beside him and gives his shoulder a squeeze.  “Let’s see what the doctors say, yeah?”

 

**\+ + +**

 

Unfortunately, the doctors don’t have any better news.  They report that Harry’s slipping fast, that if the organ failure continues, he might not last the night.  They’re doing everything to save him….

But Zayn’s stopped listening.   He just feels dead inside which, all things considered, is pretty fucking ironic. 

 

**\+ + +**

 

“You could turn him, you know,” Louis announces after a few more hours of waiting, voicing the elephant in the room.

“Murder him, you mean,” Zayn dismisses.

Louis exhales dramatically before ripping open a tea packet and plunging it into his cup.  “No, I said ‘turn.’”

“Same difference.  Besides, we shouldn’t really be having this conversation now.”  He tilts his head to indicate the people still sitting towards the other end of the room and imagines what Cal would say if she could hear them talking about this in public.

“Then when would you suggest we have it, Malik?  Next week?  Two months from now?” Louis proposes, and Zayn’s starting to regret his mate didn’t tag along with Cal when she left to pick up a few necessary items from their flat.  “Perhaps, you can check your calendar and get back to me with a more convenient time.”  The frustrated vampire dips his teabag one last time, then lobs it into the bin so hard, the whole thing nearly topples over.

It’s no surprise that they’re at each other’s throats, having been forced to stare at the hideous pastel paintings hanging on the wall since last night.  Zayn’s certain the ineptest person in all of his art classes could have made a better job of it than whatever interior decorator decided to splash some paint on a canvas and call it ‘art.’  He thinks it’s almost a sin to make anxious loved ones stare at such atrocities.  He really does. 

Bloody hell, he feels like offing himself just because of these Goddamn watercolours.

“Malik?”

 _“What?_ ” Zayn grouches back and Louis sighs.

“I’m just saying you gotta face the facts, bro.  You gotta admit that even if Harry pulls through, it’s not like he’s gonna have this long, happy life.  You’re not really taking anything away from him is how I look at it.”

“Louis, you don’t bloody know that!”

The couple across the room are blatantly staring at them now, and Louis rolls his eyes.  “I got this,” he whispers.  He strolls over to them, Styrofoam cup still in hand, and then his piercing blue gaze becomes even more piercing somehow.  “You’re hungry, and you wanted to go the canteen for the next twenty minutes—didn’t you?”

“No, we’re…,” the woman hesitates, and Zayn has to look away because it always makes him a bit queasy watching the ease with which Louis compels humans.  “I mean, um, yes.  _Yes._   Yes, I’m starved!”  The bloke she’s with seconds the notion, and then they exit the room hurriedly.

“You know, that was a shit thing to do,” Zayn grumbles.  “They’re here for a reason, too.”

“Yeah, their son’s fifteen.  He got pissed with his mates and decided to skateboard along one of the town walls,” Louis relates.  “He’s fine—just some broken bones.  His mum says she’s gonna ground him for the next two years though.”

Zayn snorts.  “Well, that _was_ an asinine thing to do.”

“Damn straight it was.”

“Sounds like something you would do, Tommo; surprised you haven’t tried it already.”

Louis cracks a mischievous half-smile.  “Who says I haven’t?”  His expression quickly turns grave however.  “Now where were we?  Oh yeah…I was just reminding you that Harry’s got a terminal disease and the notion of him living a long, happy life is complete bollocks.” 

“What if the doctors were wrong, eh?  What if Cal got mixed-up somehow?  What if there’s nothing wrong with him at all?”

“Okay, now you’re just talking rot, and you know it.”  Louis sets his tea on a table and grabs him by the shoulders.  He shakes him once, then stares Zayn down as if he were about to compel him (which he can’t thankfully).  “You need to accept the fact that he might flatline, and if you do bugger all before then, you’ll lose him forever.”

“But it isn’t about me!” Zayn argues, attempting to pull away but Louis’ grip is insistent.  “It’s about _Harry_.  It’s about what Harry wants!”

“Well, what the devil do you think _he_ wants?  He wants you!” Louis bellows back, answering his own question.  “Listen, I saw it in those doe-eyes the only time Harry and me met; think I resented him for it, too,” Louis acknowledges reluctantly.  “I was jealous that someone else was that close to you, afraid that you might have replaced me.  That’s probably why I was such a dick that first day I came back.”

“Yeah, well it takes two to tango,” Zayn shrugs. 

“It’s just…it’s just I don’t want you to make this massive gaffe.  I don’t want you to blow your chance at happiness because you think Harry doesn’t want the same exact thing you do.” 

“I can’t do it, Tommo,” Zayn owns up finally.  It’s a shattering omission, but it’s true.  He feels broken and helpless to put himself back together, just as he’s helpless to fix Harry.  “I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to.”

“Then, _I’ll_ bloody do it,” Louis says determinedly.  “Just say the word, and I’ll do it, bro.  You just gotta tell me that you’re good with this and that you think Harry is too.  You know him better than me so.”  He glances up at the clock, and Zayn feels the fierce urgency as well.  The hands seem to be racing around the disc in double-time.  “Quick though—we’re running out of time, and I’m probably gonna have to drain him again if this has any chance of working.”

Zayn closes his eyes and tries to sort it all out in his head.  He recalls how only a week or so ago, Harry had broached the topic (and Zayn had quickly shut it down).  Still, the conversation’s pressed into Zayn’s memory like a brand.

 

> _“If I were a vampire,” Harry offers up, “then that might change things with Jaspar, wouldn’t it?  You could agree to join him without having to worry so much about me, right?”_
> 
> _Zayn’s mood immediately darkens.  “Don’t go there, Harry.”_
> 
> _“But why?  I was just asking, hypothetical like.”_
> 
> _Zayn sits up.  He can’t discuss this lying down.  “Because first of all, I don’t want to join Jaspar’s evil army, and second of all, I couldn’t turn you.”_
> 
> _“Why not?”_
> 
> _“Putting aside the fact that you’d hate me for it,” Zayn answers sternly, “you have the chance at a normal life, and I can’t do that to you.  You have so much to live for—whenever we get out of here.”_
> 
> _Harry’s bites his lip, and Zayn can tell there’s a lot weighing on him.  His mouth opens and closes like a fish several times before he finally gathers the courage to speak his mind.  “What if I_ wanted _you to do it.  What then?”_

 

Zayn peers up at Louis then.  His eyes are burning, but his conscience is no longer in purgatory.  He’s made a decision.  “Yeah, do it.  I think it’s what he wants, and…and I don’t think I can go on without him.”

Louis squeezes his shoulder, whispering, “I’ll be right back.”  He’s just about to exit the waiting room when he bumps into a doctor in blue scrubs. 

“Mr. Styles, isn’t it?” the older man asks, addressing Louis.  Zayn remembers seeing him giving instructions to the junior doctor they spoke with earlier.  “Would you mind heading to that interview room over there, sir?  I have some news about your brother.”

Louis complies with his request, shrugging his shoulders at Zayn as if to say he can’t very well leave until the man finishes giving them the update on Harry’s status.  Zayn follows them into a small, enclosed room, and the emergency medicine doctor glances at the stowaway unsurely as he’s about to shut the door. 

“This is Harry’s boyfriend,” Louis explains.  “You can speak freely in front of him.”

“Oh, alright then,” the older man murmurs, a worry line creasing his broad forehead.  There’s a long moment where they’re all looking at each other before the doctor finally makes the announcement:  “I have to inform you that Harry passed away a few minutes ago due to complications from the blood loss he incurred after the attack.  I am so sorry for you both.”

It takes a minute for it to sink in, that Harry’s gone, that fate could be so cruel as to steal Harry from him at the precise moment he’d made the decision to let Louis turn him.  It doesn’t seem possible.  It doesn’t seem fair.

But when the news _does_ sink in, it’s like a million knives stabbing him, twisting in him.  Then he’s bent over wailing, wrenching and yanking at his hair.  Whatever’s left of his soul is in _anguish_ because he lost the best thing he ever had, and it’s all his fault. 

It’s all his bloody fault, and he’s going to have to ‘live’ with it for fucking eternity.

Louis drags him to his feet, hissing in his ear, _‘not here,_ ’ when Zayn’s about two seconds from spilling his conscience, from railing at the iniquity of it all.  (Louis can’t stop Zayn from thinking it though.)  The doctor reluctantly leaves them, offering his condolences once again.  But Zayn doesn’t want fucking condolences—he wants _Harry_. 

They stumble back into the waiting room:  Louis, stony-faced, and Zayn, an absolute fucking wreck.  He’s about to lose it again when he feels another set of arms supporting him.

“Thank God you’re back,” Louis tells his girlfriend.  “We just found out that Harry—” 

“Please don’t fucking say it,” Zayn begs.  He feels like he’s hyperventilating even though he knows that’s impossible, feels like he’ll go to pieces if someone says it aloud again.

“Zayn, ah ken it’s no’ easy, but ya have tae pull yourself together,” Cal urges, glancing at someone out in the hall.  Zayn looks past her and spies Grey Suit standing in the shadows.  “We’ve a situation here that wants some sorting, an’ we need yer help.”

“Help?” Louis echoes.  He sounds as confused as Zayn feels.

“Aye,” Cal nods.  “Lou, ya can assist Smithers with the, er, ‘clean up’ since that’s apparently yer specialty.”  She nods towards Grey Suit who’s still standing in the corridor, emotionless but checking his watch.

“What’s going on?” Zayn demands.  “Tell me what’s going on, Cal.”

“Aw, yer pure greetin’, hen,” Cal observes softly, reaching up to wipe away a tear from Zayn’s cheek.  “I’m so sorry, Zayn.  Ah should’ve asked ya first.”

Zayn swallows down the lump in his throat.  He doesn’t want to be here.  He doesn’t want to be having this conversation.  He wants to go home—wherever the fuck home is—and bathe himself in self-loathing.

Louis coughs awkwardly.  “Should’ve asked him what?”

“Ye dinnae ken?”  She looks from Zayn to Louis and back again.  “Shite,” she curses under her breath, looking ashamed and a little fearful.  “Promise ye will no’ go totally radge on me, Zayn, a’rite?  Promise me.” 

“What is it, Cal?”

Cal cups her hands to Zayn’s ear.  “Ah bit Harry…back at The Binns,” she whispers, and Zayn is momentarily stunned.  “Ah sent you off for the ambulance, an’ I could see he wisnae long for this world.  He was already drained so ah bit him an’ then let him drink fae me.”  She pulls back, then makes the same whispered confession to her boyfriend.

“You did _what_?!” Zayn cries out at last, and Cal’s eyes widen anxiously.

“Dinnae hate me, Zayn,” she implores, grasping his hands in hers now, grey eyes pleading.

“Thank you!” he sobs, crushing her in an embrace.  “Thank you so fucking much.  You saved him, and I owe you _everything_ , Cal.  I could fucking kiss you!”

“Yep…I’m gonna intervene right there because you’re getting a little too enthusiastic with my girl, bro,” Louis announces with a wink, prying them apart as Zayn laughs through his tears.  “Anyway, I think I’ve been assigned to assist Smithers over there, and you two will soon have your hands full with a newborn so.” 

The trio lock arms and start off down the hall, Smithers leading the way.  And maybe it’s just Zayn’s imagination, but he doesn’t fancy his feet touch the ground once the whole way.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Zayn fixes up George’s doggy bed, then scratches the scruff of his neck.  He gives Doris, a terrier mix and their brand-new rescue, a loving pat before heading past Harry’s bedroom— _their_ bedroom—to clean-up after a long shift.  (Every once in a while, Zayn still forgets how lucky he is.)  It’s only been a month since Zayn brought Harry home from hospital, carried him in his arms back here.  Zayn chewed his nails down to the quick waiting by Harry’s bedside with Cal, hoping against all hope that he’d awaken again, that he’d still be _Harry_.

He was.

Yes, a month has passed, and life hasn’t changed all that much.  They still have the same friends; they’re still planning on returning to school in the autumn.  Zayn still tends the bar at Molly Bloom’s.  Everything’s exactly how it was before.  Except now, they don’t hide the fact that they’re in love, that they’re boyfriends.

Oh, and now, they’re _both_ vampires of course.

Zayn knows that things will become more complicated down the road, but he’s dealt with it all before.  They’ll figure out a way to make everything work somehow. 

When he walks into the bedroom, Zayn sees that Harry’s still awake, propped up against pillows and reading by the light of the bedside lamp.  Zayn slides into bed without a word and rests his head on Harry’s chest.  It’s so quiet, so still, and he frowns.  Everything in the room is so completely silent.

Harry notices straight off.  “Everything alright, babe?” 

Zayn thought he’d miss Harry’s warmth more, but he hasn’t.  Harry still keeps him warm when they cuddle, and Zayn’s almost positive the new vampire’s body temperature is closer to room temperature anyway.  Harry’s just a warm person.  Period.  Even being undead can’t change that.

But the quiet bothers Zayn.

“I guess I’m just a tad sentimental that you no longer have a heartbeat,” Zayn confesses.  “Is that silly?” 

Harry sets his book in his lap and regards him with total seriousness.  Zayn starts to grow nervous waiting for his response. 

“Yes, you’re being a complete fopdoodle.”

Zayn can’t help but snigger at that.  “ _Fopdoodle_?  I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use that word this century…or last century, for that matter.”

“Is that why you love me?” Harry jokes, wearing his dopey smile as he gazes down at his boyfriend.  “Because I use words like fopdoodle?”

“…And fragdaggle,” Zayn adds with his own smile, flicking a lock of hair off Harry’s forehead.  “I suspect that’s my personal favourite.”

“Good to know,” Harry hums, sliding a bookmark between the pages of the mystery novel he was reading before setting it on the nightstand.  Zayn scoots over so Harry can get comfortable.

He wonders if Harry realises how truthful he was being just now.  Zayn does love Harry because he uses words that no one else would, because it’s just another one of the million endearing qualities he possesses.  Zayn’s head-over-heels, and it’s almost embarrassing how far gone he is for this green-eyed boy.

“Maybe I ought to buy you a metronome for Christmas,” Harry offers cheekily.  There’s a naughty glint in his eye, and Zayn can tell this conversation is going straight into the gutter.  “You could sleep with that instead and who knows?  Maybe you’ll find some other uses for it as well….”

Zayn snorts.  “Stop, you rude bastard.  I’m good with just you in my bed, cheers much.”

“Always?” Harry asks after a beat.

“Always.”

Zayn’s leg jitters as he tries to think of a way to broach the next subject.  He doesn’t want to get summarily rejected because he’s brought it up too soon, and the topic’s so sensitive, and maybe he should just forget it but—

“Spill it,” Harry laughs.  “You’re thinking so loudly over there, babe.  You’re killing me with anticipation.”

“Alright.  I mean, I know it’s still early in our relationship, but I was, like, sort of hoping that you might be open to discussing the idea of—”

“Drinking from each other?” Harry supplies knowingly, and Zayn blinks in surprise.  “Yeah, I would, actually,” Harry admits, eyelashes fluttering.  “I want to make it special though… _romantic_.  Let me plan it, yeah?  It’s been something I’ve thought about.  A lot.”

“Really?” Zayn inquires and Harry nods sheepishly.  “Well, I guess I’ll leave the details up to you then.  So now that _that’s_ settled…can I blow you?”

Harry smirks.  “Sure, babe; whatever makes you happy.”

 _You,_ Zayn tries not to think too loudly.  He kisses Harry sweetly before zig-zagging a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck and sternum.  He keeps going, lower and lower, teasing until he reaches his final destination.  When he finally wraps his lips around Harry, an exquisite moan fills the bedroom, and Zayn thinks it might be his new favourite sound. 

After all, who needs a heartbeat when you have forever?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Questions/Kudos are always appreciated. Thanks for reading! :) xx [my tumblr](http://zqua1d.tumblr.com/)


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